


Paper birds

by sparklingice



Series: Paper birds [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Adam Milligan is a Winchester, Alternate Universe, Amnesiac Dean Winchester, Anal Sex, Angst, Attempted Molestation, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Child Death, Childhood Trauma, Codependency, Delusions, F/M, First Love, Fluff, Foster Care, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kissing, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Misunderstandings, Orphan Dean Winchester, Orphan Sam Winchester, Orphans, POV Dean Winchester, POV Outsider, POV Sam Winchester, Past Child Abuse, Protective Dean Winchester, Pseudo-Incest, Psychological Trauma, Psychologist Castiel, Self-Harm, Self-Sacrificing Dean Winchester, Sexual Experimentation, Sharing Clothes, Suicidal Thoughts, Teenagers, Underage Drinking, Unrelated Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-05-24 12:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 100,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14954312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklingice/pseuds/sparklingice
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester are well-known amongst the people working in the local childcare system. They are notoriously troubled with a load of psychological issues that makes arranging their foster care its own kind of hellish task. With no living relatives left, they have little hope to ever make it out of the grinder. Then they meet Jody Mills.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, this is entirely fictional and I don't mean to offend or hurt anyone, so please read the tags. I don't have personal experience with the foster care system, therefore inaccuracies are possible and likely. Please just roll with them, this is only a piece of imagination after all.  
> I hope to update soon, this first chapter is only a prologue. Have fun reading!

 

_"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where._  
_I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;_  
_so I love you because I know no other way"_

\- Pablo Neruda, Sonnet XVII.

 

* * *

 

 

After thirty years of working as a nursery nurse in various care homes and orphanages, Adelaide is no stranger to heart-wrenching stories that would haunt the faint-hearted for life. She is strong and she knows where to find a boost when it feels like she has already given it all. She loves these kids and she does her best to make the start of their long, long journey as good as possible. There are several happy moments and miracles that prove her work is worthwhile, and after all these years, she can easily sort her memories and put them into boxes she opens only when the time is right. But there’s one particular story, something she still hasn't made peace with, that always has her heart aching with compassion, wonder and guilt at the same time.

Although it happened almost fifteen years ago, she has every detail sketched into her mind. It was a rainy morning, clammy autumn weather making its first appearance. Those days were always harder, for kids and adults alike. Nobody wanted to play. Nobody wanted to sing. Some of them were afraid of the thunder - but there was no momma to hold them, only one Aunt Addie for ten ducklings. She remembers how they were all clinging to her at one point, except for one: four-year-old Sammy Wesson. He was a chubby-cheeked little angel, she can see his face in her mind’s eye clear as day. Floppy brown hair, hazel eyes, curious gaze. It was his second week there, but despite their best attempts, he seemed too scared to do more than asking for his mommy. He just sat in a corner and clutched at the plush toy the firefighters managed to salvage from his family's burning home. A couple of the kids had tried engaging him in a game of tag, but it was all wide-eyed staring and thumb-sucking fear they got for an answer. Adelaide asked around about him. House fire, her colleagues said. No living relatives, they said. She sighed and tutted and wiped a stray tear from her eye, then went on about her day as usual. Wallowing never helps.

And then… then they brought _him_ in. Dean Winchester, eight, blonde boy with green eyes and a scattering of scars that had no business marking up the body of such a small thing. They had found him sobbing next to a burning building, soaked to the bones. He was wrapped in a blanket, clothes a size too large, and he smelled a bit like campfire. The guy who brought him lead him to one of the nurses’ chairs, then pulled Adelaide aside. His family - there, the social worker stopped and lowered his voice - his family had been murdered. Father shot his wife and their infant son, then set the house on fire, committing suicide. Dean was, apparently, supposed to be in there too. But he stayed at school longer than usual and by the time he - but that wasn't too important at the moment. The scars, though, those ugly welts on his back... they knew those signs. Another heartbreaking story. The social worker pursed his lips and said, they only needed a day or two before someone came and took the boy to a bigger place, more suitable for his age and background. Adelaide sighed and nodded. They worked with the smallest of children, up to age 6. Dean would have to move.

With another sigh, she turned back towards the children and she remembers noticing two incredible things at once. First, Dean wasn’t staring blankly ahead anymore. Second, Sam Wesson was sitting in his lap and they were hugging so hard that Sam’s chubby cheek was squished against Dean's chest.

“What the hell” The social worker gaped and Adelaide had been too stunned to even think about reprimanding him for language. _Do they know each other,_ she recalls thinking, then it was followed by a _how do I keep them together_ that made her frown. She couldn’t pull that on herself.

She was curious, though, so she crept close enough to catch Dean’s teary green eyes. “Hey Dean, I’m Adelaide. You can call me Addie or Aunt Addie if you’d like.”

The only indication that he got the message was his barely perceptible move to shield Sam from her with his arms and the blanket. She smiled and crouched down. Dean tracked her face.

“Do you know each other?” She asked gently. Dean glanced down at Sam's head, squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then nodded. Adelaide swallowed and shot a look at the social worker. He seemed doubtful. “Are you two friends, Dean?”

To her surprise, Sam straightened up at the question and gave her a big, toothy grin, something she hadn’t seen up until then. “Dean’s my big brother, Aunt Addie!” He exclaimed and hugged Dean again, who let out a smile himself.

The social worker cleared his throat and gave her a shake of the head. _Adam,_ he mouthed. That was the name of Dean’s real brother and he had been only six months old when his own father took his life. _The demons of this world,_ she thought.

But they couldn’t exactly tell Dean that right then. He was still in somewhat of a shock and despite getting a shower, his hair kept that faint smoky smell throughout the day. He didn’t speak to any of the adults, not even to the police, according to his social worker, but as the hours went by, Adelaide saw him reading a story to Sam, who hadn’t let go of Dean’s shirt for longer than a second since Dean came back from getting cleaned up. She has a vague memory of her colleagues talking about post-traumatic delusions and coping methods, but she can’t say she paid much attention to what they considered healthy and what not. She had no idea how or why, but these boys found each other within minutes of being in the same room and she knew a bond when she saw one.

That night, she barely had a blink of sleep. Her mind kept spinning around the awful fact that Dean would be taken away soon and Sam was too little to understand a sound reasoning, he would withdraw back into himself again. When she went back the next morning, the nurse on the night shift told her, contrite and tired, that she couldn’t separate the boys without crocodile tears and tantrums and she didn’t know what to do, so she let them sleep together, in the same bed. One night couldn’t hurt, right? Right. Adelaide thought differently.

She went to supervise the kids’ breakfast routine and to eat her own meal with her friends. The children were sitting neatly at their tiny tables, except for Sam, who was sitting at the adult table, in Dean’s lap again. They were sharing a jam sandwich and had matching sticky smiles on their faces. Adelaide shared a look with a fellow nurse, who shrugged, as if saying _what else could we do?_ And then, just as Adelaide pulled out her chair to sit down, Dean laughed. Happy and genuine and little-boy-like, and the pieces clicked into place in Adelaide’s head in sudden, terrifying clarity. She knew what to do. Even if it put her career at risk and changed fundamental things about these boys’ lives, she knew it.

Now, fifteen years after that decision, she still doesn’t know if she did the right thing or made the biggest mistake of her life. It keeps her awake at night, sometimes, how it could have gone better. But then she reminds herself: _Sam and Dean had been brothers in everything but blood and name._ She just made sure one of those wasn’t an obstacle anymore.

 


	2. Monsters are real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joanna Harvelle is starting her first school year. She makes new friends and learns something important along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, so I managed to get the first real chapter out as fast as I hoped. What do you guys think about it?  
> In this part, we get to see 6-year-old Sam and 10-year-old Dean from little Jo's POV. Warnings in the tags apply to this chapter too.

 

 _"My love feeds on your love, beloved,_  
_and as long as you live it will be in your arms_  
_without leaving mine."_

\- Pablo Neruda, If you forget me

 

* * *

 

Jo thinks school is rubbish. This is only her third day and she does not want to go. Why can’t she go with Mom to her workplace? She would be real quiet too. She wouldn’t even try sipping from one of the adult-drinks Mom gives the people for money. “Moooom! I don’t wanna!” She whines and fists her hands in Mom’s T-shirt. “Tracy Handerson will pull my hair again and the teacher smells funny.”

“Joanna. I’m running out of patience, girl.” Her Mom warns. It’s her angry voice, but Jo _really_ doesn’t wanna get out of the car, so she fiddles with the straps of her backpack without putting it on. Mom reaches across her to open the door, but freezes with her fingers on the handle. “Hey, do you know that boy?”

Jo glances to her right and sees a cute, green-eyed boy who must be a few years older than her. He looks cool. Jo doesn’t know his name, though, so she starts shaking her head, but then she follows the boy’s outstretched hand and notices someone she _does_ know. “That’s Sam. Sam… Chester. He is in my class.” She smiles at her Mom, hopeful. “See, he doesn’t wanna go too.”

“Doesn’t want to go either.” Her mother corrects her gently, then gives her a weird look. That’s a look Jo’s Dad likes to pull and he is all funny and tricky, but Mom is not like that. Jo doesn’t know why Mom tries to be like her father, but she doesn’t want her to do that. Then who’s gonna yell at Dad when he is bad or stupid? “I think he is scared.”  
“Scared?” Jo turns back to the window. Sam’s eyes are wide and he is trying to pull his hand out of the cute boy’s grip, digging his heels in. Maybe he wants to run away.

“Are you scared too?” Mom asks and Jo glares at her.

“No!”

“Good.” Mom smiles and pats her on the shoulder. “Do you think you can help that boy, then?”

Jo chews on her bottom lip and starts twirling one of her blond locks around her finger. She wants to help, because Mom always tells her that Dad’s job is helping people who need it and she wants Dad to be proud of her. And if she goes over, she can talk to the cute boy too. Then she can find him at recess and they can play together and she can show her classmates how awesome her new friend is.

“I’ll help him!” She grins at her Mom and jumps out of the car with newfound enthusiasm. Mom smiles again, blows her a kiss and starts up the car. Jo waits until she turns the corner before running to the boys, pigtails flopping back and forth. She skids to a halt right next to Sam. The cute boy gives her a curious look. Jo is not scared, she is not, but her voice is a little weak because the boy has nice, big eyes and freckles and she’d really like to know his name and tell her Mom all about him.

“Hi Sam.” She says and clasps her hands together nervously, twisting from side to side.

Sam stills and shuffles closer to the other boy, shoulders hunched. “Hi Joanna.”

“Don’t call me that!” She wrinkles her nose. She didn’t wanna tell the cute boy her embarrassing, girly name. “I’m _Jo._ ”

“Hi Jo.” Sam replies, but she can barely hear it above the chattering of everyone else around them.

“Is she your classmate?” The cute boy asks and tries to nudge Sam towards her. “She seems nice, Sammy. Why don’t you go to your homeroom together?”

Jo beams hard enough her cheeks hurt. “I can sit next to you today, Sam!”

“Really?” She said it because she thought the cute boy would like that, but when she sees Sam smile for the first time since ever, she knows it was the right thing to say.

“Yes. You can be my friend.” Joanna nods and sticks out a hand the way Daddy does when he makes new friends. Sam is going to be her first one here and everything seems so exciting suddenly. She wants to ask Sam things. All sorts of things, like, does he want a golden retriever or does he like goldfish better? Because that’s a very important question when you want to decide how cool your friend is. Jo has been begging Mom for a puppy for a month now. Retrievers are definitely cooler than boring, gaping fish. Sam takes her hand at last, but he doesn’t shake it like Dad’s friends do, just keeps holding it in his surprisingly warm and nice grip.

“Come on then, you two.” The cute boy says, tugs them towards the entrance and winks at Jo. Her face gets really hot after that. “I’m Dean, by the way.”

“My big brother.” Sam adds, looking proud, as they finally step inside the school gates and Dean lets go of his hand. Jo is very close to squealing, because now she has two brand new friends and Dean Chester is one of them and he is the greatest older boy she knows who is not her Daddy’s friend. And Sam doesn’t look all that scared anymore either, because of Jo. Mom is gonna be happy.

Dean nods and ruffles Sam’s hair, stepping away. “See you later, guys.” And for some reason, Jo and Sam keep staring after him until he disappears behind his classroom’s door.

 

Sitting next to Sam has all sorts of advantages. First, Jo is out of Tracy Stupidson’s reach so she can’t pull her hair now. Second, Sam knows a lot of awesome stories about ghosts and scary buildings and Dean, and he talks a lot once Jo proves that she can be trusted. Sometimes the other kids try mocking him because he has ugly clothes, but Daddy taught Jo how to kick a boy’s privates and she is good at chasing them away. She and Sam make a good team together.

On a cloudy Monday morning, he has a smudge of dirt on his cheek when they meet up at the entrance. He is real sad too and Jo knows something is wrong, because Dean gives him a full hug instead of the usual hair ruffle. They have some time before their first class starts, so she drags Sam into the girls’ bathroom with herself and takes off her bandana. It’s blue and she chose it because she knows Dean likes that color, and Mom put it into her hair and said she was pretty, but she doesn’t have anything else to use on Sam’s face and she doesn’t want the other kids to joke about him being dirty.

“I shouldn’t have come in here.” Sam mumbles and flattens himself against the wall. He looks nervous, but that’s dumb, because Johnny Delan has been scaring her classmates here just the other day and he didn’t even get detention. “What are you doing?”

Jo finishes wetting her bandana and puts a hand on her hip. “I’m cleaning your face, silly!”

Sam blushes, but lets her dab and wipe at his dark red cheeks. “Dean has cleaned most of it off already, you know.” He mutters and shuffles his feet. Jo narrows her eyes like she saw Mom doing when someone tries to leave before paying for their beer.

“Stop making excuses.” She says, once again mimicking her Mom. “Why didn’t your mommy do it?”

Sam’s hazel eyes lower to the floor and he shrugs. “I don’t have one.”

Jo snickers and messes up Sam’s hair like Dean does, because she wants to be like Mom, but she also wants to be a bit like Dean too. “What do you mean? Everyone has a mommy!”

Sam sighs and pushes off the wall, now clean enough. “Dean and I don’t. She died when I was little.”

“Oh.” Now she feels really bad. Her Granma died too the year before and she is still sad about it and would do a lot of things to be with her again. She can’t imagine what losing her Mom would be like. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Sam smiles and hugs her. “I don’t have a daddy either, but I have Dean and he is much more awesome anyway.”

They exit the bathroom and start walking towards their classroom. She still has her wet bandana in her hand and she doesn’t know what to do with it. She hopes Mom won’t be too angry when she sees how dirty Jo gotten it. “Then who packs your lunch in the morning?” Jo asks, because that’s the first thing she remembers that only her Mom does.

“Dean, of course.” Sam chuckles. “But we live with a family, you know. Sometimes they buy us clothes and stuff. Dean calls them fosters, but their name is Mr. and Mrs. Peters actually.”

They have reached their classroom, but their teacher’s not there yet, so they still have some time. Jo sits into her seat next to Sam’s and leans closer to whisper into his ear. “And Mrs. Peters didn’t wanna clean you?”

Sam bites his bottom lip, then glances around and whispers back. “Can you keep a secret, Jo?”

“Yes.” She is real good at keeping secrets. Her Mom still doesn’t know that it was Dad who broke the bedside lamp, not Dad’s loud friend, Daniel, who’s always walking kind of funny because he likes wine.

“Don’t tell anyone, but… Mr. Peters wanted to give me a bath yesterday.” Sam confesses. “But I can shower alone.” Jo gives him a ‘well, duh’ look. Only babies don’t shower alone. “He really wanted to come help me, though, so I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want him to touch me. Then Dean stepped in and said I either shower with _him_ or on my own and Mr. Peters should -” Sam stops and hesitates for a moment there. “- he should fuck off and leave me alone.”

Jo gasps. That’s a very bad word! Her Mom would scold her real bad if she heard her say it. But Dean is cool and brave that he dared do it in front of Mr. Peters. Jo wanna be tough like him. “What did Mr. Peters do?”

Sam sighs. “He got so mad. He said if Dean has such a big mouth, then he won’t mind that I won’t get to shower at all. Dean yelled it was fine by him as long as Mr. Peters kept his filthy hands away from me. I didn’t understand, because his hands looked clean. But.” Sam shrugs, sheepish. “I skipped a shower. That’s why I was dirty.”

Jo frowns at him for a few seconds. The whole story was so weird. Like, why would Mr. Peters get angry that Sam wanted to shower alone? He wouldn’t have to help and he could do something fun instead of scrubbing Sam’s dirty skin. Grown-ups are confusing, she decides. Then their teacher comes in and she promptly forgets about all of that in favor of showing that she is the smartest girl in class, not that whiny Tracy.

 

Next week, during recess, they sit on a bench in the schoolyard and Sam tells her they have moved to another family. The parents have three other children already, but they are all girls and Dean is the oldest out of the five of them, so Sam says he’s sure they will get along just fine. Jo nods and smiles. “I’m happy for you. Mr. Peters sounded mean.”

“He was.” Sam admits and gives her a gap-toothed grin. He has been losing his baby teeth, just like Jo, and they are making it into a competition. The one to lose the most until Christmas gets to have a piggy-back ride on Dean. Dean isn’t all that happy about the prize, but he has been laughing about their silliness, so Jo figures it’s still on. “Hey, Jo, do you have any matchbox cars?”

She shakes her head, her braided hair flopping around. “I only have dolls and legos. I don’t like cars that much.”

Sam slumps in his seat, defeated. “I wanted to get Dean one for Christmas. I don’t have any money, so I can’t buy one, but I’ve been saving candy since summer, so I thought you could give me a car for those. I don’t know what to do now.”

“Dean likes cars?” Maybe she could get her Mom to buy Dean one. Jo imagines his happy face when she gives him a present, and can’t help, but smile.

“Yeah.” Sam smiles too. “He has a mini Chevrolet Impala. It’s black and really old and he calls it Baby. I think it’s from… before. Before our parents died. Like my Zach.”

Jo racks her brain, but she hasn’t heard of this Zach yet. She hopes he isn’t trying to steal Sam, because he is _Jo’s_ best friend. “Who’s Zach?”

“Oh!” Sam blushes. “I thought I showed him already.” He reaches for his backpack and unzips its big pocket, then pulls out a plush puppy that’s missing an ear. “I’ve had him as long as I can remember.”

“Sweet!” Jo reaches out and pets the soft fur of the toy. “What happened to its ear?”

Sam hums. “Dean says it has been torn off when they got us out of the fire. He said he could ask our fosters to replace it, but I like him better this way. It reminds me of my old home.”

Jo tries not to imagine a fire taking away her own home, her room, all her barbies, her favourite blanket. She doesn’t wanna cry. She did when Sam told her the whole story for the first time, but her Mom took both her and the boys out and bought them cherry pie, so she stopped soon enough. Her Mom is at work now, though. “Do you remember it?”

“Not really. Just… feelings, I guess.”

Jo nods and pets the toy again. “Mom still refuses to buy me a real puppy.” She whines. “I promised I would take care of her, but she says no every single time. I hate that we don’t have a big garden. I can’t even ask you over to play soccer in there, it’s that small.”

Sam puts Zach back into his backpack and shrugs. “I can’t play anyway. It would ruin my shoes sooner or later and I can’t get another pair just for playing.”

She is about to answer - maybe she can lend him a pair of hers - when Dean plops down on the bench next to his brother. “What is this I hear about shoes?”

“Nothing.” Sam replies, way too quickly. Dean raises an eyebrow at Jo and she is already spilling the beans before she can even think about it.

“I thought we could play soccer when you guys have time, but Sam says he can’t because he doesn’t have a spare pair of trainers. We should check our shoe sizes, though, because I might be able to lend you one.”

Sam looks mortified. He avoids Dean’s gaze and fiddles with the strings of his hoodie, while Dean gives him this intense stare that Jo finds interesting. She doesn’t know what she did wrong, but she doesn’t have a chance to find out either, because they have to get back for class again and Sam refuses to speak about it.

 

One day in October, their smelly teacher, Mrs. Ratchett gives them the task to make a card for the person they love the most on Earth. They get paper in all the good colours and glitter and stamps and markers too. Mrs. Ratchett helps them cut out little hearts, gives them glue and they let loose on their own cards. Jo likes the way the glitter shines when she turns her work this way and that and she hates how her writing turned out, so she covers the _i lovve you mom_ with glue and pours lots of glitter over it. Mrs. Ratchett tells her she has to wait until it dries, so she crosses her arms and looks around, smug. Most of her classmates are trying to scribble messages for their moms on their papers, except for one boy who is writing “Mical Jorden” on his. She doesn't know who that is, but she thinks that might be the whole name of the boy’s mom. And then there is Sam, who has written _I love you Dean_ on his light blue paper with the nicest letters Jo has ever seen. Wow, she knew Sam was smart, but she didn't know he could write like that! She could have asked him to write her message too.

“Do you need some glitter, Sam?” She asks, because that's the only thing that's missing from Sam’s card.

Sam smiles and shakes his head, running a finger over the writing one last time before saying his work is finished. Jo squints at it and now she sees there are drawings along its edges. “What are these?”

“Stuff Dean and I have done.” Sam replies fondly. He points at something that has fangs and a lot of fur. “We hunted werewolves -” His finger moves to a thing that has long limbs and claws. “- and wendigos -” Then he settles on a shapeless spot. “- and ghosts too. Usually, I'm the one who figures out how to kill a dangerous monster, then Dean gets what we need and we take care of it. And he always protects me. We are the best hunters, Jo.”

Jo doesn't believe him. Mom and Dad told her many times that monsters aren't real, just like Santa. She had been upset about the second one, but when she spied her Dad putting the presents under their Christmas tree, she knew the other thing was true too and she had nothing to be scared of. She knows monsters live only in cartoons.

She tries convincing Sam when recess starts and they filter out into the schoolyard in their autumn jackets and beanie hats. Sam got a new pair of shoes from their fosters so that he could play soccer, but he doesn't have a hat and his coat looks really warm, as if it was made for winter, and it's a bit too big, so he still looks ridiculous. But Jo forgets to laugh because Sam keeps arguing with her and that's annoying.

“Monsters aren't real!”

“They are too!”

“Are not!”

“Are too!”

“You are stupid.”

“You are the stupid one. I've seen -”

“Easy, tiger.” Dean comes up to them out of nowhere and grabs Sam in a headlock. They wrestle for a minute, getting dirt all over their clothes, until Sam gives up and lets Dean sprawl over him on the ground. Jo wants to play with them too, but she doesn't know if it's okay or not and now she knows she is so bad at this friend thing, because she had a fight with her best friend and she doesn't know if -

“Hey, Jo-Jo, what's with the long face?” Dean pokes her arm, getting to his feet. She shakes her head and tries not to let her eyes fill with tears. She messed up so bad. Sam must hate her now that she shouted at him and called him stupid.

“Jo?” Sam stands up too. “I'm sorry. Are you mad at me?”

She looks up. He is concerned and perhaps a little bit afraid too, but not angry. Jo lets out a breath and smiles in relief. “Of course not. You are my best friend.”

Sam gives her a smile back, the one with those dimples in his cheeks, the best smile in the world after Dean’s, then turns to his brother. “I told her that monsters are real, Dee.”

“Oh, here we go.” Dean rolls his eyes, but his voice is fond. “It’s true, Jo.”

Now she is just confused. Who is the one telling the truth? Mom and Dad are tricking her? Or is this maybe a game? “I don't understand.”

Sam nods and purses his lips in thought, then his face lights up and he tugs on the zipper of his brother’s coat. “Show her, Dean, let’s show her.”

It’s weird, but Dean swallows and turns a bit whiter. Is this a secret they aren't supposed to tell? Jo is getting more and more curious by the minute, so she starts pleading along with Sam’s demands. “Please, Dean, I feel so left out. I don't know anything.”

Dean sighs, then pulls them behind the main building to hide from their hawklike teachers. He starts unzipping his coat and Jo is close to jumping up and down in excitement. What is he hiding? Is Dean an angel with beautiful white wings? Can he fly? She hopes so. It would be the best thing ever.

“Hold these for me, Sam.” Dean huffs in the cold and drops his hoodie and his coat in Sam’s arms. Jo can’t see wings, but they could be invisible until you touch them, or just foldable. “Alright. Here is the proof, Jo.”

It takes her a second to see through her disappointment about the lack of wings to realise what Dean is talking about. He has turned his back on her and it’s now bare to the waist. He took off his shirt too, then. There are bruises and strange red lines over his skin and there are some scars that look white and old.

“The bruises are from the wendigo we tracked down last weekend. Red marks got there from a ghost, yesterday.” Dean recites. His voice sounds funny, like when he is telling a fairy tale, but Jo doesn’t know what that means.

Sam nods solemnly, shifts Dean’s clothes to one of his arms, then reaches out and runs a fingertip over one of those white ones. “And this was a demon. One of the worst things you can find. The one that took our Mom and Dad from us.” He whispers and hands Dean his clothes back.

They are silent for a moment. Jo is reeling from the discovery and her head is spinning from all this new knowledge. Sam and Dean are hunting monsters. Monsters are real. They are real and hungry, and looking for prey and she… she…

“You are safe, though!” Sam tells her and puts a hand on her shoulder. “See, I don't have any marks, because Dean is watching out for me.” He tugs his clothes up a little to show his smooth lower back. “And now you have me and Dean _and your parents_ watching out for you, so you have nothing to worry about.”

“Best guards ever.” Dean adds with a grin and squeezes Sam close.

She thinks about that, then she has an idea. If she learns how to fight and stand up against these creatures, learns all their weaknesses, then she can defeat them and keep herself safe. And can keep helping other people, like her Dad, just a little differently. She can become a hunter. That thought helps and gives her a sense of determination she hasn’t known before. She thinks about Sam's spotless skin and Dean’s strong arms and her brave, brave parents and smiles. Monsters are real, but she has the best friends and family to fight them with.

 


	3. Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donna Hanscum has a terrible night, Sam and Dean have to face something scary and we learn that there are no coincidences in Jody Mills' life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, what a week I had! One of my profs seems to like torturing us and didn't tell our exam results for eight consecutive days. I just about died. (No kidding, I had nightmares.) But now it's over and I've passed, so I finally whipped up the parts that this chapter was missing.
> 
> Have fun! Sam is 10, Dean's 14 in this one.

 

  
  
_"Don't leave me, even for an hour, because then_  
_the little drops of anguish will all run together,_  
_the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift_  
_into me, choking my lost heart."_

\- Pablo Neruda, Don't go far off

* * *

 

When Donna decided to leave her job, home and family in Minnesota to become a social worker in Kansas with no chance to save enough money for the house of her dreams, her parents said she could have run away from Doug to a little closer than that. It was a dark time. She guzzled her pain and bullshitted through the first months, talked about how she found her purpose in life and how rewarding it was to actually help people. Her parents kept giving her these kind of sad looks and, consequently, she gained fifteen pounds on top of her already ample size. Her best buddies were cookie-dough and milkshakes. Doug would have laughed his skinny ass off.

Then she started making connections with her colleagues, started to go out with new friends, bought a gym membership card that she has yet to use and met Doug - not Doug the fat-shaming jerk, but Doug the clueless teddy bear whom Donna is _not_ ridiculously in love with. And by the time she had sorta sleepovers at Doug’s place that they spent watching Miami Vice, she began to feel content for the first time since she married her biggest mistake. Life is good now, however different it is than what she planned as a teenager.

She got the Winchesters’ case five months ago as a birthday “gift” from her coworkers. As she stared at the messy stack of papers, they snickered into their cheap coffees and told her she wouldn’t be bored at work anymore. Today, she is sitting at the same darn desk in the same tiny cubicle and wishes they weren’t so right about that.

“Meg, slow down, I ain’t getting a word you’re saying.” Donna sighs, sweating up a bucket in worry. She had been ready to finish up for the day and grab a bite with her sweet and patient boyfriend, who wouldn’t have minded her being half an hour late to their date but would be hurt now if she had to cancel it all together. Then her phone started ringing. She wasn’t surprised she had to open the book-sized Winchester dossier once again.

“He was screaming at me.” The woman on the other end of the line cries and heaves a breath, trying to calm down. “He was screaming because I didn’t tell him where his brother was and I - you know that I have no idea who the other foster is, you know -”

“It’s okay.” Something was bound to happen when she couldn’t find a household that would take _both_ of the boys in, Donna had no doubt about that. She just hoped it would take long enough that she could get someone, anyone to give them food and a bed for the night (not even two, they wouldn’t use it anyway). No such luck. Sam and Dean are well-known in the local childcare system and the registered foster parents have long since learnt to avoid them at all cost. They are notoriously troubled and their hostility makes arranging their care its own kind of hellish task. And apparently, two days of lull is too much to ask for.

“He came so close to my face…” Meg hiccups and Donna hears a nose blowing. “I was afraid, in spite of how small he is. And you know how my husband gets.” Donna nods, even though there’s no one to see it.

“He pushed Sam away from me. But… he pushed too hard.” _Oh no,_ Donna thinks, _no, no, no, let him be okay._ Beside the obvious problem of a possible injury, Dean will go ballistic if Sam is hurt and Donna has very little in terms of controlling that kid. “He hit the edge of the coffee table and there’s so much blood -”

“Son of a gun. Did ya call an ambulance?” Her only response is sobbing for a few seconds, then she hears a rustle and a rumbling male voice talking over the sounds of crying.

“He ran away. I couldn’t catch him and now I have no idea where and how bad off he is. We drove around the block for two hours, but no sign of the brat.”

“Jeez, Tom, you waited _hours_ to tell me?” Sam could be in another county for all they know!

“We thought he might come back. And it looks like there was a fucking murder in here, we tried cleaning that up first. Our white carpet has a blood stain the size of the boy himself.”

“I don’t give a flyin’ fudge about the state of your carpet, you should have -” Donna takes a deep breath and tries to will her anger to subside. She hates getting angry, because it drains her mental energy and that usually leads to comfort doughnuts. She has been eating way too much of them lately. “Alright, I hear ya. I’ll see if I can find him. You guys wait there until I call.”

She hangs up on Tom Masters with a furious huff and runs a hand through her hair. This is a disaster. Sam is injured and alone out there on the streets in freakin’ November, and it's raining cats and dogs. Just because Donna was foolish enough to avoid placing them in a group home. That poor boy. She has to find him fast. Where to look, where to look… Would he go to a hospital on his own? Doubt it. Or come here, perhaps? Heck no, he despises the place. But where else? Donna has no clue. Sam doesn't know where his brother is, but he must want to find him. Maybe, he is going to the school, Dean would be able to pick him up there. Or - well, they have been separated before for short periods of time - what if they have agreed on a meetup place? Yeah. Knowing those brats? This sounds likely. Which leaves her with the obvious conclusion that she should talk to Dean. Her pulse pounding in her ears, she scans the dossier for the contact info of Dean’s latest foster parents and crosses her fingers.

Tessa picks up after the third ring. “Donna?”

“Hiya, can I chat with Dean for a sec?”

There's a pause on the other end of the line. “He’s not home.”

She _so_ knew it. “What? Why?”

“He wanted to go to the movies with a friend from school. A lady friend, I think. Pretty cute. You said I shouldn’t try controlling him too much, so… I gave him a twenty and made him promise to be back by ten. He looked so happy.” Except, Donna knows that Dean has no friends whatsoever. She talked to his teachers, his classmates are terrified of him. And he would sooner cut his own arm off than go on a date when Sam’s whereabouts are unknown to him. Which can only mean one thing. He is already on his way to the meetup place.

 

She spends the next fifteen minutes tearing through the papers for clues, but not a single location stands out. They have moved more times than she could count and changed schools on at least six occasions. Perhaps she should try their current one after all. She is almost at the end of her rope when she spots a phone number circled with black permanent marker. _GARTH F., retired - in case of emergency_ written under it. Donna gasps and dials as fast as her chubby fingers are able to move.

“Ahoy-hoy, Garth Fitzgerald IV speaking.”

 _Yes!_ The guy sounds like a complete wackadoo, but he must know something useful. He must. “Hey, I’m Donna Hanscum from the FCA Association, we haven’t met yet -”

“Donna from Minnesota? Sam and Dean’s Donna?”

Donna can’t help a surprised chuckle. “Betcha. How did ya know?”

The guy hums. “We have quite a history with the boys. I tend to ask around about them. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Donna. How may I help you?”

“We have a situation here. They ran away.”

“Oh, let me guess. You tried housing them apart?”

“Wasn’t much of a choice there. Do you have any idea where to find them? It has been about three hours and I’m lost.”

Garth makes a series of weird sounds, then clucks his tongue. “I have a guess. Check out the playground in Veteran’s Park. That's their first choice most of the times. It’s quite fascinating, actually, I was always curious why that exact place…”

“Meanin’?”

“Well, it’s only four blocks away from the house where their parents died.” Donna frowns. They don't have official access to the boys’ pasts before foster care, except for the basics, like place of birth. As if to answer her unspoken question, Garth coughs. “I know, I shouldn't have found that out, but don't blame me, I'm curious by nature.”

Donna decides to let it go. Finding them takes priority. “They might have fond memories of that park.” She mumbles back, typing the location into Google Maps. (What? She is still new in town.)

“Doubt it. Sam would have been too little and Dean doesn’t remember anything before his first group home.”

That makes her freeze. “What the cuss?”

Garth stays unfazed by her bewilderment, voice lazy and smooth. “You didn’t know? He is amnesiac. His first memory is holding his brother and eating jam sandwiches with a bunch of social workers, as far as I know.”

But Dean was eight back then, old enough to have clear memories of his biological parents. Did he have a head trauma Donna doesn't know about? And why is there not a single beep of this in his file? She should be able to inform potential adopting families about physical and mental health concerns. Not that there are many interested parents in this case… Especially after they learn that Dean is part of a sibling group that can't be separated for adoption. Not even his beautiful face could compensate for that _and_ the noted behavioral issues.

“It’s a shocker, huh?” Garth drones on. “Back when they lived with me, I’ve taken him to my cousin, she’s a counselor. Nothing really helped though, he’s blocking pretty firmly. To be frank, I’m not even sure we should try to get those memories back. You must have read the files.”

“Yeah. I hear ya.” Donna shakes the image of a scarred back out of her mind. “Thank you, Garth. I gotta go now.”

“Anytime. And hey, I got a spare bunk in here. You can bring them over if they need somewhere to crash.” He says cheerfully and Donna smiles as she stands up to grab her coat. She might need to take him on that offer.

“Got it. Thanks a lot.”

 

It stops raining just long enough in Veteran’s Park for Donna to leave her umbrella back in the car. As soon as she is closer to the playground than to the place where she parked, it starts up again, twice as hard as before. Murphy’s law, Donna thinks and squelches her way through wet foliage and mud to the swings and monkey-bars. The park is deserted. Every sane person has long since retreated into the safety of four walls and a fireplace. She shivers and spares a fleeting thought for her heavy comforter and soft mattress back home. God, this day has been long and it keeps stretching further.

“Sam?” She calls out, despite the meagre chances of an answer. “Dean!”

Dusk is fading fast, the heavy clouds above darkening into blackness. The nearby streetlight turns on - it’s officially nighttime. As she pushes an empty swing into motion, the surrounding trees seem to bow in tandem with her slumping shoulders. Her blond hair falls out of her ponytail and gets plastered to her head. Her socks are uncomfortably soaked, but all she can think of is the floppy-haired little boy she is responsible for bleeding and scared somewhere out here.

She regrets she wasn’t here to handle their case back in the first years. Then they might have a family by now, a good one. But they got into some careless dilettante’s hands and - it's probably a good thing for Donna’s emotional stability that the files are not too detailed about what happened. There are far rougher cases, she is all too aware, but that fact doesn't make beatings, confinement, neglect and God knows what else okay. She hopes Alastair Peters is going to rot in hell. How a spineless bastard like that could get a state-issued approval to foster is beyond her understanding. And to think that it took an entire year to notice it and lock him up! She feels a painful pang in her chest when she thinks it's only sheer luck that neither of the boys have been sexually assaulted by that time. It was a close call. And she can’t say they made it out unscathed.

“I’m so losing my job.” She mutters absently, drifting in her dark thoughts, and stomps into a puddle by accident. The pack of kleenex she fishes out of her bag does nothing to wipe the flecks of mud off her jeans. It’s a lost cause already, but she wastes three tissues before giving up on salvaging her appearance.

She purses her lips and goes over to the trash bin. Scouting out the neighbourhood seems to become the next thing on her messed up agenda, when something catches her eye between a banana peel and a plastic bottle. Her head whips back around to the garbage and she sees - “Heck.”

There is a bunch of discarded bandages and wipes on top of the stinking trash, their whiteness almost completely tinted crimson and brown with drying blood. Sam must have been here. And he is not anymore. Which means that Dean found him and patched him up and that leads to -

Donna’s phone startles her out of her revelation. She fumbles to pick it up while rushing back to her car, mind racing. Are they running out of town or what? For the life of her, she can’t get those boys.

“Donna, Sam and his brother are here.” It’s Meg, rasping with a hint of panic in her voice. “Dean’s got a knife. I’ve called the police too.”

 _Crap._ Sounds like Donna’s up shit creek without a paddle. “Hold up, I’m coming.”

 

By the time Donna arrives at the Masters’ house, the front door is gaping open and in the middle of the living room, Dean is yelling at Tom Masters and swinging a long kitchen knife in front of his angry-red face. Sam is standing a step behind him with fat, messy tears dribbling down his chin and onto a hoodie that must be one of Dean’s. Dean is almost unrecognisable in his rage and terror. As she thought - ballistic. The whole scene looks like the testament of a mental breakdown.

“If you ever try to go after my brother again, I swear I’ll kill you, demon. Did you hear me?” Dean bellows and his voice cracks - the only sign that gives away how much of a teenage boy he still is.

“Dean!” Donna calls out and the Masters on the opposite side of the room let out a relieved exhale. “It’s alright, nobody wants to hurt you or Sam. Let’s just go out to my car and -”

“No, Donna!” Dean snaps at her and backs his brother into a wall behind them, raising the knife once again. “Can’t you see?” He gestures at Tom and Meg with the tip of the blade. “They are demons, monsters! They feed on human souls and work for Azazel. Look at their eyes.”

Demons? Azazel? What is wrong with this child? Donna swallows and takes a few steps forward. She has to check on Sam. He probably has a concussion - let’s hope for nothing more severe. Glancing over Dean’s shoulder, her gaze makes contact with shining hazel eyes. The head wound seems to have bled through Dean’s clumsy bandage, but Sam looks coherent for now. Good. If only he came closer… Donna bites her lip and gives him a beckoning sign. Another gush of wetness trickles down Sam’s face, but he shakes his head and presses closer to his brother.

“...they killed our parents and now they all want my brother.” Dean goes on, snarling. “Over my dead body, fuckers.”

Tom sighs. “Look, kid, you are a little scared now, but it was only an accident -”

“Shut your lying trap!”

It’s going to come to blows, Donna thinks, but suddenly, Sam’s hand darts out and catches the grip Dean has around the knife. “Dean…” He cries and steps away from the wall. “Let’s go with Donna, okay?”

Like a switch, Dean’s entire demeanor changes. He drops his weapon on the carpet and his voice turns low and soothing. “Shh, don’t talk. I’ll protect you.”

The first sounds of a police siren blare out from the street, but he seems deaf and blind to everyone else all at once. Donna spots a single teardrop on his cheek, dripping down as Sam’s lips wobble.

“I wanna go to the hospital.”

“Your head hurts?” Sam nods and sways on his feet. “Fuck. Alright. Alright, we’re going.”

Dean brushes the hair out of his brother’s eyes and pulls him into a hug that goes on and on in silence until a pair of police officers forces them apart.

 

A week later, Donna’s staring at the closed door of Garth’s guest room with a toy car in her pocket and a heavy weight on her mind.

“He doesn’t eat more than a cracker a day. Doesn’t talk either.” Garth whispers. “I tried every trick I know that worked before, but he is such a stubborn brat, Donna. Tell me they are letting Dean out of juvie this week.”

“Sorry.” She sighs. “Two more weeks.”

“Poor things. Neither of them deserves to be locked up.” Garth shakes his head, then retreats back into the kitchen. They have gone over this conversation a few times already. There’s only so much they can do. Donna sure as hell can’t take the boys in, she can’t adopt them and most likely no one will. They are going to drift through the system and end up like far too many others, struggling and unable to fit in. She purses her lips and pushes her way inside the room to sit at the foot of the bed where Sam has curled up, facing the wall.

“Hey, kiddo, head still hurtin’?” She smiles. No answer. “I heard you got the A-okay from the doc. Excited to go back to school? Your teachers have been missing you.” Silence.

“I brought you something that might cheer you up.” She pulls the car out of her coat and places it in Sam’s limp hand tentatively. Dean insisted she gave it to him, though for what significance, she doesn’t know. For a few seconds, she thinks not even this has been enough to stir Sam back to life. Then he clenches his fingers hard around the toy and sits up so fast she jumps in fright.

“How is my brother? Is he okay?” He asks, voice rough from lack of use.

“Yes, hun. I make sure they take good care of him.” She doesn’t mention the dissociation Dean keeps doing every other day. Sam needs to gather himself together, not to worry himself sick over that. “Did ya eat anything today?”

Sam averts his eyes. “Sure.”

"I was born at night, Sam, not last night."

He smiles a little at that. “I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat.”

“I don’t wanna.” He gives her a petulant frown. Donna raises an eyebrow.

“What would your brother tell you now, hm?”

Sam breaks into a smile again, fiddling with the car Dean sent him. “That I’m a stubborn bitch.”

First time she heard that word said so fondly, Donna muses and puts a hand on his shoulder. “He is worried about you. I want to tell him you are doing well, but I can’t do that if you are aiming to become an ascetic.” Sam chews on his bottom lip. Well, pulling the Dean-card may be a low-blow, but it certainly has its results. “Do you think you can take care of yourself until he comes back? Can you do that for him?”

“Yes.” Sam sighs and rubs the hood of the toy with the pad of his thumb. “Just tell him I’m fine.”

“Sammy, please, would ya look at me?”

“It’s _Sam.”_ He glares, then deflates just as fast as his fire lit up. He seems miserable and in desperate need of someone resembling a mother.

Donna can’t give that to him, but she will do her best. She slides her arm fully around his back and gives him a short hug. “Two weeks, Sam. Just two more.”

 

* * *

 

Sheriff Jody Mills doesn’t believe in coincidences. She never did. When her old, rusty Ford died a noisy death during patrol and she found herself in a certain salvage yard, she knew it was for a reason beyond her current understanding. She was right - she met her husband there. Not an accident. When she almost bit the dust herself because of an appendicitis, she knew it happened to teach her how precious life was. She learnt her lesson. And when it turned out, after many years of trying and hoping and not giving up, that she and Bobby couldn’t have a child of their own, she knew it had a purpose too. They spared it no grieving or moping around - it didn’t happen, because it wasn’t meant to. She accepted that, but more than anything in this world, she wanted to be a mother, to experience the greatest love and connection a woman can ever feel. So she dove headfirst into adoption. Went to trainings, got a homestudy, did the whole dance except for actually finding a child. Bobby indulged her, of course, that’s how he rolled - growling and swearing and playing a general hardass, then leaving pamphlets and guide books around as if they have appeared out of thin air. And it all led to this moment, Jody knows now. Life can always throw another curveball, but glancing at the boy Donna has just introduced to her, she thinks she has found the right path to take.

 

“I’m stumped, Jodes. My car was working just fine last night. I swear the universe is conspiring against me.” Donna told her that morning as she got into Jody’s sedan. “I’m sorry. You’ve come all the way from Sioux Falls to have fun and now I’m asking you to help out with work.”

“It’s fine. I’ve come to have fun _with_ _you_ anyway. Now, who’s this kid we’re picking up?”

“Dean Winchester. He’s not exactly an Al Capone yet, just gave some people a scare. Nothing too bad.”

“How old is he?”

“Fourteen. Doesn’t look it, though, you will see. Doe-eyed punk.” Donna shook her head. “Watch out for the attitude.”

Jody almost snorted at that. She knew a thing or two about men with bad attitudes. “I've had quite some practice in handling that.”

Donna laughed. “Sometimes I forget who you shacked up with. Anyhoo, I figure he’ll be nice today, we are taking him back to his brother after all.”

“He has a brother?”

“Yeah, loves him to a fault. He is ten. They have no one else, though, their parents died six years ago. Can’t say I'm sorry for the father, he was an abusive son of a bitch, but it’s darn tragic that their mom’s gone too.” Her mind leapt to her husband immediately, she recalls and holds back a sigh. Bobby is still trying to prove he is different, a better man than the alcoholic scumbag he called father.

“I’m trying to find a foster home that lasts more than a few months, but these boys drive everyone up the wall.” Donna ranted as they rounded the corner to the juvie. She tends to speak too much when she is nervous or embarrassed. “I swear they do it on purpose. Pouring salt in beds, covering someone’s floor with a giant pentagram, breaking mirrors, making traps - point being, Winchester equals trouble, remember that, Jodio.”

 

Dean doesn’t look like trouble at all. He is circling around Jody’s car like a coiled wire ready to unfurl and strike, but it’s not _trouble_ that springs to her mind when their eyes meet. It’s _beauty._ Not that shiny, polished kind, but something more elemental that’s closer to the wilderness than to white picket fences and apple pies. Jody’s heart misses a beat.

“Gotta take care of some paperwork. I’ll be back in a minute.” Donna announces and rushes back into the building, leaving them alone.

“Are you a cop?” Dean asks and kicks a rock across the parking lot. His eyes don’t wander back to hers after that first once-over, but Jody’s not fooled to believe she’s not being assessed. Oddly enough, it makes her pulse quicken.

“I’m the sheriff in Sioux Falls.”

“Figures.” He mutters and stops to lean against the trunk. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he tips his head up to soak in the sunshine. His pale face is serene, but his body is thrumming with vigilant tension. He’s humming off-key Metallica and there’s a crooked smile on his lips. Jody’s a little bit in awe. She is being obvious in her staring, but Dean just waves a hand at her. “I’m not the droid you are looking for.”

Grinning, Jody waits until he glances over, then winks. “Magic tricks don't work on me, Obi Wan.”

Dean snorts, then turns to drum his fingers on the dusty metal of the vehicle. He draws a frowny face and wipes his fingers on his jeans. Jody watches him, tries to spot the bad and the broken pieces, and blinks from the sudden wave of overwhelming curiosity that hits her.

“How did you get that, Dean?” She gestures at the shiny thing around his neck, just to strike up a conversation.

He curls his fist around the pendant and keeps doodling on the dirt. “My brother gave it to me a few years ago. It’s a protective charm, an amulet. He sold a lot of candy to get its cost. Calculated prices and everything.”

“Sounds smart.”

Dean’s smile is brighter than the sun. “Oh, he _is_ smart. And he likes school way too freakin’ much.”

“You don’t?”

He looks flummoxed. “Hell no, it’s school.”

Jody grins and steps almost close enough to touch. “What do you like then?”

Dean shrugs, then averts his eyes. There’s shame in the blush that crawls up his cheeks, something he is expecting judgement for. All of Jody’s motherly instincts want to find the people who put it there and give them a lecture they won’t forget. “Cars, I guess.”

“That’s cool.” Jody smiles at him. “My husband, Bobby, is a mechanic. We have a garage and a salvage yard.”

Dean’s head whips up, eyes wide and strangely hopeful. “Really? Does he work with classic cars too?”

Jody has no idea what counts as classic, but Bobby has worked on hundreds of models before, there must have been a few. “Sometimes.”

“Man, I love classic cars. They have the most awesome designs, ever. Like, have you seen a Cadillac Eldorado? I can totally imagine rolling into Vegas in one of those. They are a bit flashy, though.” Dean’s entire face has lit up and he waves his hands around in excitement. He must not have a lot of people to talk to about these things. “I wanna save up for a Chevy Impala once I got Sam through college.”

“Seems like you have everything figured out.”

“Damn right. I’ll get a job as soon as possible so that we can move the fuck on when he is out of this system. He’ll be good enough for a scholarship, all I’ll have to rake together is some food and a place, then off we go.”

“What about _your_ studies?”

Dean shrugs again, good mood dying down. “I don’t wanna rot in school, bossed around by balding profs.”

They fall into silence. Dean is now close enough that Jody can hear his breathing, see the faint lines of worry around the corners of his mouth and between his eyebrows. She hesitates for a moment, then bumps his shoulder as gently as she can. “Are you okay?”

At first, he seems reluctant to answer, but then something changes his mind and he makes a quiet confession. “I’m nervous.”

“Why?”

“I dunno.” He licks his lips. “What if Sam doesn’t wanna see me? I messed up big time, you know.”

It takes all her willpower not to hug that uncertainty away, but she knows when to touch and when to keep her distance. Dean doesn’t need pity. He needs empathy and understanding. “A ten-year-old who is willing to give up candy for you? I don't think you have anything to worry about.”

She had been right with her approach. The crease on Dean’s forehead clears away and he gives her a long, steady look for the first time since Donna dragged him out the door. “Eight. He was eight when he gave it to me.”

“The point stands.”

Jody Mills doesn’t believe in coincidences. Everything happens for a reason. And when she looks at the gratitude in Dean Winchester’s eyes, she feels like her belief has once again proved to be true.

 

Later that day, she sets her plan into action. “You know that lately, Bobby and I have been looking for a child to adopt.” Donna nods, munching her dessert on the couch next to her. They are watching a rom-com, but it has been little more than background noise to Jody’s whirling thoughts. She feels as though she is on the brink of a new life, like something has shifted and fell into place at last. “Can I choose someone from another state?”

“No.” Donna blurts out, then backtracks at Jody’s surprised frown. “I mean, yes, you can do that, but… You can’t mean… You’re not thinking of Dean, are ya? You barely met him.”

“He is perfect.”

“Jodio…”

“I know what I want.”

“You don’t know him.” Donna shakes her head and puts her ice cream on the coffee table, turning serious. “That boy has more issues than years. He needs some serious help, and the state issued funding won’t cover the costs of a good enough psychologist.”

Who cares about money? It’s worthless, replacable. But that child… No, Jody can’t give him up, now that she found him. “We have savings.”

“Okay. I’ll - I’ll tell you a few things, alright? I’m not supposed to at this stage, but… I want the best for you and the kids too.” Donna blows out a breath and levels a hard look on her. “Dean has been abused severely enough that he has amnesia. He is belligerent and volatile, has frequent nightmares, delusions, dissociative periods… He is a real handful. And don’t get me started on his relationship with his brother. It’s a challenge to get them to sleep in separate beds. If you take him, you have to take Sam too.”

The speech flies right over Jody’s head. Her heart has made a decision. “Good, because I want to adopt them both.”

The spoon drops out of Donna’s grip and clanks on the floor. “Sweet Jesus.” Donna whispers. “You are serious.”

“Absolutely.” Jody grins, unconcerned by how manic it might look. She is going to do it. She’s going to be a mother. “Can you help me get them?”

Donna smiles back with the same gobsmacked glee and slaps her shoulder. “You betcha.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really excited about the next part. The boys will get to meet some important people.


	4. An angel of the Lord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys move to Sioux Falls and begin a process of healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra long chapter. I thought about splitting it in half, but you see, I have a system and I would have felt bad about messing it up. There will be more about the new family dynamics in the fifth part.  
> I'm nervous about this one, so it'd be good to hear your thoughts after you read it. :)  
> Don't forget, this is fiction.
> 
> This part contains potentially TRIGGERING materials! So beware, dear readers.

 

 _"Only do not forget, if I wake up crying_  
_it's only because in my dream I'm a lost child_  
_hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands,_  
_for your caresses like the wheat,_  
_the flashing rapture of shadow and energy."_

\- Neruda, Sonnet XXI.

 

* * *

 

It took three months to finally get to the point of taking Sam and Dean home. They missed Christmas, New Year’s Eve and Dean’s birthday as well, which proves, once again, how much administration sucks. Jody feels like these were both the longest and shortest months of her life, but she has done it, the boys are sitting in her car now, and they will be on the road as soon as Donna’s done saying her _Last Minute Tips to Avoid the Apocalypse_ routine. This is a lovely day. Not even the crispy spring air could chase the smile off her face.

“...and don’t touch Sam. That is, until he touches you first. Just don’t.”

“Got it.”

“Oh, and Dean has a butterfly knife somewhere. I don't know how he got it.”

“We _know,_ Donna. Calm down. We’ll be fine.” Jody rolls her eyes and leans in for one last hug.

“Not to be a party pooper, but the kids are gettin’ fidgety.” Bobby grumbles behind her and gestures back at the car. By the looks of it, Sam is trying to wrestle the last Twinkie out of Dean’s hand.

“Alright, we’re going. I’ll call if something comes up.” She smiles and turns to open the passenger side door. As soon as she slides into her seat, the boys sit up and try to pretend nothing out of the ordinary happened back there. Their postures are indeed perfect, but Dean’s bulging cheeks and Sam’s angry scowl are dead giveaways.

“Something tells me _someone_ has eaten all the Twinkies Donna gave you two.” Dean’s mouth is so full of food that he can't even protest. Jody is tempted to laugh, but she suppresses it into a grin and rummages around in her bag for the one she put away for herself. “But that someone didn't know about my secret stash.”

She twists and holds the cake out for Sam. “This one's yours, sweetheart.” Yeah, she's not above buttering them up with sweets. So sue her.

“Thank you!” Sam grins and takes it, shooting his brother a triumphant look.

Dean is in the middle of a glare when Bobby gets in behind the wheel at last. In her twisted position, Jody has a spectacular view of Dean’s blood leaving his face and his back going ramrod straight. Interesting. She purses her lips and turns back around to look out the window, giving Donna a wave. Well, Dean is obviously wary of Bobby, which can go one of two ways. He will either be compliant until he realises her husband is all bark and no bite, or he will start acting out to fight an imaginary villain in him. Let’s pray for the best.

It's gonna be strange, having them around all the time. They have spent time together on about a dozen occasions since that first meeting at the juvie, but this is going to be different. Jody has been up at the ass crack off down, checking everything over one last time. She can’t curb her apprehension, Bobby seems to be doing a valiant job of that for the both of them. What are the boys going to think of their house? Are they gonna like it? She bets Sam will be excited by the library. The place’s nothing close to Stepford-esque perfection, but it’s theirs and she has tried to make it homey. They _are_ gonna like it, right? Bobby helped her prepare two bedrooms upstairs, even though Donna told them numerous times that the kids are gonna huddle together at night. She is thinking ahead, because she has no doubt that once they have a modicum of stability, they will loosen the leashes around each other and start to occupy a healthier size of space. They gotta need some privacy at one point - Dean has just had his fifteenth birthday, bringing girls home must be an impending issue.

Lulled by the soothing sounds of the radio, she slips into a daydream of their future. How are they going to decorate their rooms, once they understand that they are staying? It’s so exciting. Today, all their possessions fit into a pair of duffel bags. That just won’t do. Once they are settled, she’s gonna make sure they accumulate their own little treasures, books and posters and tacky teenager things she doesn’t try to understand anymore.

They are so different, both in looks and personality, if it wasn’t for those birth certificates with the unidentifiable smudges and stains, and the familiarity between the boys, she never would have guessed they are related. But they are, and it’s gonna be so awesome to see what kind of paths they take. While Sam seems to shape up into one of those quiet, broody types, she can easily picture Dean blasting crass rock hits day and night. God, she can’t wait.

“Go to sleep.” She hears Dean’s whisper from the backseat.

“Don't wanna.” Sam whines back.

“You never wanna, but you always do.” Dean drawls and Bobby gives her an amused glance. _Kids,_ she imagines him saying.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“Jerk.”

They start to scuffle, so Jody twists to look at them once again. The low-key squabbling stops immediately and is replaced by a contrite expression and one set of puppy eyes. Dean’s rather cocky than remorseful. “We’ve got four more hours to go, you can sleep if you want.” She says. “I’ll probably drop off too.”

“I’m okay.” Sam mumbles, but his head is drooping towards Dean’s shoulder at a telltale angle. He has two fingers hooked into the hem of Dean’s shirt, which Jody finds inexplicably cute.

“Tell me if you need anything.” She smiles at Dean, who offers a nod back, then she lets them be. They’ll have all the time to talk when they get home.

 

Two weeks in, they are still settling, more or less getting used to each other. Bobby’s having a surprisingly hard time of it, because Dean has taken to following him around when he gets back from school. Jody has witnessed this particular phenomenon last Friday afternoon as she began mopping the porch, and nearly laughed herself sick. Bobby stomped across the salvage yard to fiddle with wathever he was working on and no more than a minute later, Dean was ambling after him, faux-casual. She stared, lips already tugging upwards. Then the moment she caught a glimpse of Sam running after his brother with a book in hand, she burst into giggles. It was like watching a pair of ducklings and their momma. She asked Bobby about it that night - was he teaching Dean or something? But no, it’s all awkward and spontaneous, according to him. And the funny thing is, they don’t even talk to each other. Dean just sits closeby and watches until Sam starts complaining about the darkness.

Jody’s contemplating what to do about it when Bobby trudges into the kitchen, roused from sleep at last. “Morning.” She smiles at him and offers a toast. He just grunts and bypasses her in favour of the coffee machine. “Why, aren't you a ray of sunshine today?”

“Those urchins carved sigils into the bedframe.”

Jody makes an undignified snort into her coffee. She loves her husband’s vocabulary. “Just play it cool, dear. They are still on the defensive.”

“Don't I know it?” Bobby grunts. “Dean pulled his knife at me a second ago, after I dared shake his brother awake. Got mighty surprised when I told him to drop that toothpick.”

“Bobby… I told you Sam doesn't like that. And you know why.”

“I forgot.”

She sighs. "Do you think we should confiscate that balisong?" Bobby grunts again. She deems it as a negative reply and stands up. “I'll go check on them.”

“You do that.”

She gives him a reassuring kiss on the cheek, then moves to go upstairs. Honestly, this man… He’s got baseball scores basically imprinted into his hindbrain back to the early eighties, but the tiny snippet about their adoptive son’s fear of touch escapes his mind. Well, she needed to speak to the kids anyway. She'll just have to suck it up if Dean’s still feeling vindictive about the mishap.

She finds him sitting on the bed, digging his toes into the brand new carpet they bought for the room. Sam’s nowhere to be seen. “Hey, Dean.” She smiles and sits beside him.

“Hey.”

“Did you have a good night?” His skin is pale and clammy, which makes Jody’s pulse surge. What if he got sick? She has next to no experience with feverish children, can they take Tylenol?

“It was okay.” Dean mumbles and looks up at her with tired eyes.

“Was it?” She gives the rumpled sheets a meaningful glance.

He turns away and picks up a tissue from the bedside table. “I had a nightmare.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

Dean shakes his head. “It happens. But I got kinda sweaty, so… Sam’s in the shower. I hope you don't mind.”

Ah. That’s a good sign. He might not have freaked out too badly then. “Not at all. We have an endless supply of hot water since Bobby tinkered with the heater.”

Dean bites his bottom lip. “He and I scared each other this morning.”

“So I've heard.”

“Aren't you angry?”

“No. Why would I be?”

“Because of the knife?”

She gives him a considering look. “Were you going to hurt him?” Dean shakes his head. She knew he wasn’t. These are nothing but defence mechanisms, she knows. They require patience. “No harm done, then. But I do hope you will feel safe enough to discard it one of these days.”

“Me too.” Dean admits quietly. They sit in comfortable silence until the faint sounds of singing drift over to them from the adjoining bathroom. Jody snickers. Yeah, Sam’s not freaked out at all.

“Dean. I've wanted to discuss something with you.” She begins. With Donna’s help, she found the best psychiatrist within fifty miles, a guy who’s rumored to work miracles. It wasn’t a piece of cake to get an appointment with him, but they got lucky. Now, all she has to do is convince the boys to go. How hard is it gonna be to sell this idea?

“Okay.”

“Bobby and I… we think it might be good if you had someone to talk to. Outside the family.” Dean gives her a guarded look. She braces herself. “A psychologist.”

“No.”

“Darling -”

“No!” Dean snaps like a trapped animal, fight or flight response activated. “I'm not gonna let some shrink diagnose a bunch of crap, then drug me until I’m a vegetable and stick me into the madhouse for ‘my own good’.”

“Nothing like that is going to happen. I promise.”

“If you try to take Sam away -”

Jody shakes her head. “No, no, no. Don’t worry.” She attempts a smile. “Please, just think about it. Can you do that?”

“I dunno.” Dean mumbles and starts shredding the tissue in his hand. He keeps tearing it apart until the shower stops running. Then he scatters the pieces on the floor and sighs. “Yes. Of course, I can, Jody. I’ll think about it.”

 

* * *

 

Child psychiatry is one of the most rewarding, yet challenging jobs Castiel can think of. If he had to compare it to a two-dimensional shape, he would say it’s a sine function graph. Endless, periodic ups and downs, with minute changes in amplitudes and vertical shifts. Except for dissociative identity disorder, maybe. That’s like… a tangent graph. Or a polynomial function. He hasn’t decided yet. Mathematical matters aside, Castiel loves his job and he loves it all the more when he manages to shepherd a little kid back on track. Some say he has celestial abilities (but come on, folks, he’s just good at listening), some claim he read a lot (true, by the way). Talent or lack of it notwithstanding, he has days when he finds it difficult to drag himself home from his fancy-ass office. There are stories that suck the light right out of you until normal human behavior is an unfathomable trial to take. Do not choose this profession if you can’t bear the weight of tragedy. The case of Sam and Dean Winchester is a textbook example of that, in his opinion.

Regarding their issues, Castiel is reasonably sure that he is faced with a rare one, a so-called _folie à deux,_ a shared psychotic disorder. The disorder in question is the persecutory subtype of delusional disorder, which means they are highly functioning if you don’t count the delusions clouding their minds. It’s a relief, considering the much more worrying possibility of schizophrenia. Thank heavens, he can rule that out. According to his assessment, Dean is the primary case, the one who developed the disorder in the first place, and Sam’s problems are only a side-effect of their proximity. In theory, separation would be the instant solution to the “shared” part of their diagnosis. However, it is virtually impossible without severing the only close bond they have at the moment, so that is a no go. They will have to take the longer path to recovery.

In a way, sessions with Sam are much easier than the ones with Dean. He is a willing participant and a generally chatty patient, but on the other hand, he keeps skirting around the sensitive parts like a trained expert. Dean has no such qualms, but he is emotionally detached and reluctant to be engaged. They don't make it easy for him. Today is the first time with Sam that Cas has felt a leak in his composure and it took him explaining his weirdass name to reach this level of openness with the boy. He is not about to waste the opportunity.

“Let’s talk about demons, Sam.” He skips straight to business. “How do they look like?”  
Sam shrugs. “They look ordinary, because they can possess anyone. They are in the form of black smoke until they find someone they like and take over his body.”

Sometimes he wonders if the real cause of psychosis is too much televison. “How do you tell when someone’s possessed?”

“Sometimes their eyes get really black, but it’s the smell, mostly. Like rotten eggs.” Sam’s nose scrunches. “Mr. Peters smelled like that all the time. He would come home from work and I would have to pinch my nose shut until he took a shower.”

So bastard foster parent was a _stinking_ bastard with bad personal hygiene. Great. “Are you sure it was the demon-smell?”

“Yes. He used to say it was ‘cause he worked at the factory where our father did, but we saw right through his lies.” Sam leans closer and gives him a significant look over the coffee table between them. “Demons always lie or try to trick you. Don’t make deals with them.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Cas nods back and writes a note about that factory-thing. He’s going to fact check it if he can. “He knew your father?”

“Not really. I don’t think they talked to each other or anything. He didn’t even know what he looked like. But our old case worker placed us with him because he thought it would make him familiar.”

“You spent a year living with him and his family. Can you tell me what that was like?”

Sam swallows. “Horrible. It was… Dean called it Purgatory. Because we met a lot of monsters there.” He is wringing his hands in his lap. Castiel waits him out - all their previous sessions hinted at something connected to this Alastair guy.

“He - He wanted to touch me sometimes, you know. Mr. Peters.” Sam stutters. “That’s why I don’t like…” He looks away and hugs himself.

“Why you don’t like to be touched by people you are not familiar with.” He finishes gently for him.

Sam gives him a vulnerable look. “He didn’t do anything, I swear.”

Oh, how he wishes this wasn’t something he heard from every third victim of sexual abuse. “You can tell me if he did. Everything you say stays in this room.”

“He, uh, stroked my back, once. That’s all.” Sam admits quietly. “And walked in on me bathing or dressing up every now and then. I didn’t know why, but he scared me, and when I told Dean, he flipped out. He said he was going to make a deal. From then on, he was watching me like a hawk and when Mr. Peters got weird again, he would do something stupid, like, attacking him and things like that. Then Mr. Peters always forgot about me and turned on him instead.”

So far, everything fits the case history he put together. The primary case took ninety percent of the abuse. “What did he do to Dean?”

“Took him down to Hell. I’m not sure what happened there, but…” Sam takes in a ragged breath. “Dean was crying for me. I could hear it through the door.” His eyes go shiny with tears, but he doesn’t let them spill, so desperate for the semblance of control. Castiel feels the first little splinters of the day etch into his heart. “He was crying so loudly… I couldn’t let him out, I tried, but I couldn’t find the key.”

“It’s okay, Sam. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Then one day, I stole a hairpin from Mrs. Peters and Dean picked the lock with that. We ran away to our meetup place. To that playground I’ve talked about last time. And when our case worker picked us up, Dean showed him some bruises on his sides and we didn’t have to go back to that house ever again.”

“Thank God.” Castiel shouldn’t show judgement towards anyone mentioned, but sometimes he can’t help it. The patients find it nice, usually, take it as a bit of change. Sure enough, Sam smiles a little and reaches for a tissue to blow his nose. “Maybe we should take a break from monsters and demons, what do you think?”

“Okay.” Sam smiles a bit wider.

“How about memories? I’m really interested in your fondest one.”

His grin turns bashful. “I don’t know…”

“You can say anything you want here. It’s between you and me.”

“It’s weird.”

Castiel smiles with genuine humor. “No judgement here. I’m pretty weird myself, Sam.”

“I think it happened before our parents died. The picture in my head is kinda blurry, but… I remember that I felt so safe.” Sam starts, flashing a pair of dimples. “So safe, like nothing could ever hurt me. I don’t think I’ve felt quite like that since. I was in a park or… or a forest. The wind was swishing through all these green leaves.” He raises his hands as if to touch the memory-trees around him. “It was really hot, so I think it was summer. And Dean was holding my hand. We were going somewhere, I don’t know where. He had Zach in his other hand.”

“Zach?”

“My old stuffed animal. The only one left after the fire. Dean held him in one hand, gripped my fingers with the other. _Don’t worry,_ I think that’s what he said. His hair was extra blond, because of the sunshine, I guess. And that’s kind of everything.” Sam shrugs self-consciously, dreamy look still in place. “I know it’s weird, ‘cause I have much clearer memories that might even be happier, but… This is from before, I think.”

“It’s a beautiful memory, Sam, thank you for sharing it.”

“It’s nothing.”

“That’s not true. It obviously means a lot to you.”

Sam nods at his lap. “I have a few more. Mostly impressions, though.”

“I’m interested in all your thoughts.” Castiel coaxes. It’s a strange thing, working on two cases all weaved together into one. Whatever he gets out of one boy, he can connect it to the other. It doesn’t mean he would use it, because he is a firm believer of confidentiality, but it’s enough that he knows.

“I think Mom had short, brown hair.” Sam mumbles, then lets out a frustrated sigh. “I can’t, I’m sorry. I don’t really talk about the things that were before.”

“You can talk to me now.”

“I don’t know where to begin.”

“Why don’t you start by telling me why you feel like you can’t talk about your loss?”

“It's just… I’ve been too little to remember much, but Dean can’t remember _anything.”_ Oh, yes, the amnesia. That’s one of the most delicate issues in this can of worms, because how do you solve something that’s virtually nonexistent? “When I told him about this one - I was seven, I think - he cried about it when he thought I fell asleep. He thinks I don’t know. It hurts him that he can’t recall the things that have been taken from us. So I won’t talk to him about these.”

“What about Jody? Are you afraid of talking to her?”

Sam shrugs. “No, but… these are really lame things. I don't wanna bother her.”

“I have a nephew, Jack.” Oftentimes, slipping in a personal story on his end does the trick and rolls the therapy forward. Castiel has just the right one for Sam today. “We meet almost every single week and each time when I come to visit, you know what he does?” Sam shakes his head. “He keeps going on and on about a bunch of mundane things they do in kindergarten. I know about every scrape he gets, every sandcastle he botches up and every cucumber sandwich he eats. And you know what? I love it. Because I care about him and I want to hear about the things that are important to him. It would never bother me.”

“Do you think Jody cares about us?”

“I know she does, Sam.” Castiel sees the impact before Sam is even done thinking about it. This wasn’t an easy session, sure, but seeing that sort of hope? Worth every joule of mental energy Cas spent.

 

* * *

 

The first time Castiel is alone with Dean Winchester, they spend thirty minutes watching each other in silence. Establishing who’s the alpha? Cool. Cas is a defending champion in staring matches.

“Christo.” Dean hisses out at last, probably bored to death by Castiel’s blue eyes. “Fuck, you didn’t flinch. I was so sure you would.”

“What are you doing, Dean?”

He gets a sizzling, hostile glare. “I’m wondering what kind of creature you are.”

Castiel tilts his head to the side. He is going to do something very untraditional and risky here, but he has a gut feeling. He needs Dean to trust him and they need to be on the same page for that. Dean isn't in any state of mind to see Castiel's view, so he has to take it on himself to take a dip in Dean’s world of delusions and pull him out from the inside. “What if I say, I'm an angel of the Lord?”

Dean scoffs, but he is definitely interested. “Angels don't exist.”

“Why wouldn’t they, if demons do? Where would be the balance then?”

“Balance?”

“Good and Bad. Light and Darkness. Sine and Cosine.”

That earns him a ‘ _what the hell’_ look. Alright, Cas has to admit that last simile has been a bit… outstretched. “I don't know.” Dean squints at his shoulders. “Where are your wings?”

“I'm keeping them on another plane of existence.” He says with his most earnest voice. He almost believes it himself. “They are too big.”

His answer seems to get him a check in the box. “If you are real, then why didn't you come when we needed you the most? When those monsters -” Dean growls, but cuts himself off before actually saying something substantial. Cas has quite an admiration towards his willpower.  

“Angels make mistakes too. Our eyes can't always see through the shadows. But here I am now.”

Another minute of excruciating silence follows. Then Dean crosses his arms. “Prove it. Convince me you are an angel.”

Cas nods, takes a moment to think his words through, then goes for it. Breakthrough or setback. “I know how much you've done for your brother, Dean. You have given your body for his and that you would have given your life too.”

Dean shrugs, but the tension in his limbs is anything but casual. “It was a fair deal.”

“Such a deal can never be fair.” God knows no one should have to make decisions like that. “I know you've been to hell and what has been done to you there. I'm aware that sometimes you still feel like you are back in that place, getting tortured by demons.”

Dean’s eyes are going from panicked to hopeful to distrustful, then back, full circle. He licks his lips. “You believe me?”

“I believe you are telling the truth about how you experienced these things. And I know there are times when you send your mind away to keep out the bad memories. I suspect it happens mostly when you are unsure of your brother’s safety or location. Is that the reason why you sleep in the same bed with him?”

Dean's eyes snap to his. That's something he must have thought Cas didn’t know. “How do you know about that?”

“I know many things Dean.” Castiel leans forward and looks him square in the eye. “And I can do more. I will pull you out of the pit for good, if you let me.”

Dean is silent for a long, long time, then his aggressively sprawling posture crumples in on itself and something cracks in his expression. He folds over his knees on the couch and Castiel almost sighs when he faces the young, hurt child underneath all that hardness for the first time. “I'm scared.”

“It’s alright, Dean, I’m here and I'm going to help you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dissociative amnesia is always a tricky thing to deal with. When memories get locked away from the conscious psyche, most of the time, the reason is their severity. The conscious can’t cope with the extreme stress and the emotions attached to the event, so it chooses to split it off and tuck it deep into the unconscious. Castiel has seen patients without any recollection of their self and other cases struggling with only one hour of blackout. Dean is missing eight years. Five, if they don’t count the normal period of childhood amnesia. The problem is, they could work on bringing the memories back, but there was a reason why the conscious rejected them - they are too much. It might be better if they didn’t touch them. Faced with their harsh truth, Dean could just as likely develop a new type of psychosis that is much harder to cure or deal with. And Castiel believes that some lions should be left sleeping. Another issue they have to avoid is inducing false memories, especially because Cas is going to try hypnotic age regression to help him tap into whatever event that caused the delusions. Planting memories into a mind in trance is frighteningly easy, so he has to be careful how much he nudges Dean in the right direction. They are going to build an affect bridge to reach the Initial Sensitising Event, the one that started the malfunctioning thoughts. Although it will be up to Dean to bring up the feeling associated with it, Castiel can already guess that it’s going to be fear, which is one of the hardest to witness without meddling too much. All in all, he knows this is going to be a hard session, and they have barely even started.

“As an angel, I have certain special powers.” He says and Dean’s eyes light up.

“What kind of powers? Can you heal wounds?” He asks excitedly.

Momentarily thrown, Cas replies. “Some kinds.”

Dean nods, his usual determination on his face. He stands up, and to Castiel’s horror, takes his shirt off and turns his back. “Can you heal these?”

The lines are thin criss-crosses over that smooth, pale expanse, marks never to be erased. Castiel knew they were there. He knew they got there from the hand of Dean’s own father, his case worker cleared that up fast. But that doesn’t change the fact that Dean shouldn’t be half-naked in his office. He sighs and shakes his head. “I'm sorry, Dean. Please, put your shirt back on.”

“It's alright.” Dean complies, resigned. He plops back down on the couch and bows his head. “You're doing your best. I'm just too fucked up.”

Many people would be surprised how little self-esteem this kid’s hiding under his bravado. They are trying to boost it up, but Castiel’s yet to get any results on that front. “You are not.” The comment earns him the usual sceptical look. He decides to ignore it this time - they should start on the hypnosis soon. “Listen, Dean. One of my powers can help you go back in time for a short while.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He perks right back up. “How far back? Can I go to the Wild West? ‘Cause man, I love cowboys and shit. Do I get to wear cool clothes too?”

Castiel fights down a smile. Kids can be the most adorable when you expect it the least. “That's not what I had in mind. I can send you back to the years before your parents died.”

Dean goes very, very quiet. Eerily. He frowns at his fingers, picking at the seam of his jeans for almost an entire minute before he comes to a decision and glances up. “Can I see my mom again?”

“I believe I can do that.”

He exhales hard enough that the leaves of Castiel’s indoor plant ruffle. “Let's do it, then. Whatever you have to do, just go ahead, Cas.”

God, this is going to be gruelling. He feels so much empathy for this child that he would give up the case if he knew there was anyone else who could deal with it. “It's not going to be easy. You will have to go through some of the worst moments you have experienced in your life. Maybe even hell. But don’t worry, I promise I will bring you back unharmed.”

Dean doesn’t bat an eye. “Okay.”

“It’s going to feel like a dream. You will walk through time and space and I will be there with you all along the way. You won’t be alone.”

“Alright, Cas. Let’s get to it.” He _smirks._ Brave little brat.

“Close your eyes.” Castiel leans back in his chair and makes his voice smooth and monotone. “Can you imagine making a fist so tight you couldn’t possibly squeeze any tighter?”

“Yes.”

“And can you imagine the opposite, relaxing your hand so much that you couldn’t possibly relax it any more?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the quality of relaxation I want you to get. In a moment, I’m going to ask you to relax the muscles around your eyes so much, that as long as you hold onto that relaxation, your eye muscles won’t work. Anytime, you could choose to be in control, and let go of that relaxation, and open your eyes, but you do that every day. I want you to stay in control by relaxing those muscles and not opening them.”

“Okay.”

“Now, I’m going to raise your hands and I want you to keep them where I leave them.” He pulls Dean’s hands forward and up to chest height. “Imagine that there are magnets on each of your palms, pulling your hands together. I want you to hold against that pull for a moment and when you feel like you can’t possibly hold any longer, let your hands touch. Feel those magnets in your palms, pulling and tugging, tugging and pulling.”

Dean seems to be pretty receptive, he’s already giving up the control. “Your hands are moving closer. It’s alright, Dean, let them come together.” Cas waits until they are almost touching, then grabs them in his own grip and touches Dean’s forehead. “Sleep.”

The surprise and the firm command do it every time. Like the majority of his patients, Dean goes limp and slumps into his seat, falling into trance. Only a few steps now.

“In a moment, I’m going to lift your hand by the thumb, just a couple of inches, and drop it. I want you to let me do all the lifting, and keep your arm relaxed. When I drop your hand, it will fall like a wet cloth.” He lifts the hand without any resistance and it falls the same way. The hypnosis is working. “Now, I want you to count back from a hundred like this: 100… deeper relaxed. 99… deeper relaxed. With each number, you fall deeper into sleep. Your mental relaxation doubles every time. After just a few numbers, you will have relaxed your mind so much, that there won’t be any more numbers left to say. You will have relaxed them right out of your mind. Begin now.”

“100… deeper relaxed. 99… deeper relaxed.” Dean recites obediently. He sounds so loose and defenseless, Cas is tempted to stroke his hair.

“That’s right. Push them out of your mind. Let them fade away.”

“98… deeper relaxed. 97… deeper relaxed. 9...96… deeper relaxed.”

“All gone?”

Dean nods. The Elman induction is finished. They have reached somnambulism, the deepest level of hypnosis. And here comes the hard part. “And now your attention goes to the feeling of the shoes upon your feet. A wave of relaxation washes over you. Now to your pants touching your legs.” He works his way up to the top of Dean’s head, then starts building the affect bridge. “And now your attention goes to the feeling inside of you that you don't like, that has everything to do with why you have come here to see me today.”

Dean finds it fast - it must have been on the surface. Cas sees it in his eyebrows, in the blanching skin, in his very being. Fear, bone-crushing fear. “I can see that you have become aware of the feeling, because your breathing has become faster and your face is turning white. And now as I count from 1 up to 5, that feeling grows inside of you, like a fountain flowing up from inside of you.”

Cas hates to see this part, but it’s necessary. He can’t reach Dean’s locked up memories otherwise and the traumatizing event is there. They have to go through this. “Now, I want you to imagine that this feeling is a bridge to the very first time you felt this way. In a moment, I will count from 1 up to 5 and when I say _now,_ you will go back to an earlier time when you felt this way.” He counts, then mentally crosses his fingers. _“Now.”_

Dean’s face tenses and relaxes, then tenses up again, worry lining his brows. He went back. But to which point? “How old are you, Dean?”

“Fourteen.”

Cas frowns. They are only a year back, at most. That means they definitely have to dig further. “Where are you?”

“In the park. Our meetup place.”

“Are there other people with you?”

“Sam.” Dean almost sighs. “Sam is with me.”

“What’s happening?”

“It’s raining. He is sitting in a swing. He is crying into my stomach. His head is bleeding. I can’t stop it, my hands are shaking. His foster parents did this to him. They are trying to take him away from me.”

Damn, he will have to prod about this too on their next session. Dean was so good at pretending to be casual about it, that Castiel foolishly dismissed the event last time. Amateur mistake. “He is going to be alright, Dean.” He says to placate him. “They won’t take him away. Now, I want you to focus on that feeling inside you. I will count from 1 up to 5 and when I say _now,_ you will go back to an earlier time when you felt this way.” He counts. “ _Now.”_

Dean’s face does another series of contortions, then he lets out a whimper. “How old are you, Dean?”

“Ten.”

“Where are you?”

“In Hell.”

Cas closes his eyes for a moment. He suspected this was coming. “Where is hell?”

“In Alastair’s cellar.”

“Are there other people with you?” Dean shakes his head, expression numb. “Where is Sam?”

“On the other side of the door. Alastair is talking to him.”

“What is he saying?”

“That he is going to strap him too if he lets me out. That I deserved it for disobedience. He will shut me into the dog kennel next time. I don't wanna go to the dogs. They are hellhounds with big teeth. It’s so dark in here. I’m cold. My back hurts. I taste blood.”

Castiel tightens his jaw. “Focus on my voice, Dean. I’m here with you and we are going to leave this place. Now, I want you to concentrate on that feeling inside you. Let it spread in you and show the bridge to the very first time you felt it. In a moment, I will count from 1 up to 5 and when I say _now,_ you will go back to an earlier time when you felt this way.” He counts. _“Now.”_

Dean goes whiter than a sheet. His eyes are moving back and forth behind his eyelids. “How old are you, Dean?” No answer comes. Castiel resists the urge to wake him up that very moment. “I’m here. Focus on my voice. How old are you?”

“Eight.” He answers in a voice so quiet and high it’s barely recognisable.

“Where are you?”

“Home.”

“Are there other people with you?”

“Mom. Baby.” A pause. “Dad.”

“Who’s Baby?”

“My brother.”

“What’s happening?”

“Dad is home. He smells funny. He is angry. Mom is crying. Baby’s crying. Dad hates noise when he is angry. Baby’s too small, he doesn’t understand. He is too loud. I have to protect my brother. I have to protect my brother. No!” Dean cries out and Cas has to bite back a yelp. “No! I'm here! I’m louder!”

Jesus, this is deteriorating fast. “Listen to my voice, Dean. He can't hurt you. He can't hurt your brother either. He can’t touch you. You are safe.” As much as he wants this whole thing done, Cas still has to check if this is the ISE or not. “Now, I want you to concentrate on that feeling inside you. In a moment, I will count from 1 up to 5 and when I say _now,_ you will go back to an earlier time when you felt this way.” He counts. _“Now.”_

Dean’s face remains the same. “How old are you, Dean?”

“Eight.”

“Where are you?”

“Home. With Mom and Baby. Dad is back from work.”

“What is he doing?” Oh, how he hates this question.

“He punishes me for being loud. He says I'm annoying. I have to take my shirt off. I’m scared. But Baby’s safe. Dad has a belt. He takes it off. It has a metal buckle. It hurts. He says I’m bad. My back feels wet.”

Wet from the blood. Christ. “You're doing so well, Dean. Just a little bit more. Focus on my voice. Where is your mother?”

“Mom is with Baby. She is afraid. Dad is angry. His eyes…” Dean's voice breaks and he starts convulsing every other second. He’s reliving it. “His eyes are black, his eyes are black, he smells like… a demon, he is a… a demon… monster… a de- a demon…”

“Listen to my voice, Dean. I’m here. Look at his eyes again. They are angry, they are bloodshot, but they aren’t black.” This is the key, Castiel thinks. If he can twist these delusions into reality again, they will affect all the others, even if they remain unconscious.

“They aren’t black.” Dean repeats, crying and flinching rhythmically. “He smells like demon.”

“What does a demon smell like?”

“Rotten eggs.”

“I want you to take a deep breath of this smell. That’s the smell of the factory your father works at. Remember that smell, Dean.”

Dean whimpers again. “My back hurts. It hurts.”

“It’s alright. I want you to look at your Mom, Dean. When you look at her, there is a feeling inside you, a good feeling. I want you to focus on that feeling. Let it wash over you. Let it chase away the bad feelings and build a new bridge. In a moment,  I will count from 1 up to 5 and when I say _now_ , you will go back to an earlier time when you felt that good feeling.” He counts. _“Now.”_

Like magic, the crying stops. The blood flows back to Dean’s face and his expression turns serene. “How old are you, Dean?”

“Seven.”

“Where are you?”

“Home. In my bed.”

“Are there other people with you?”

“Mom.”

“Where is your brother?”

“In Mom’s tummy.” Castiel raises his eyebrows. He’s not sure he understands. They are so deep in trance, how is it possible that the memories are all jumbled up like this? Sam was three at the time, she couldn’t have been pregnant. Or… Did she have a miscarriage?

“What is she doing?”

“She is telling me about Baby. That he is going to be with me forever. That I’m his big brother and big brothers take care of little brothers. She asks me if I’m going to keep him safe.” Dean smiles. “I promise, Mom.”

“What does your Mom look like?”

“She has golden hair. She looks like a princess. Her eyes are green, like mine. She says she loves me. She lets me talk to her tummy. She says Baby hears it.”

Cas really needs to stop this now, he is drained of his emotional supplies. “I want you to hold onto this feeling, Dean. In a moment, I’m going to count from 1 up to 5 and when I say _wake up_ and touch your forehead, I want you to open your eyes and leave this dream. You will be completely relaxed and full of energy. You will only remember this last dream. You will remember your Mom and Baby in her tummy. You will not remember your father. I’m going to count now.” He counts, then touches Dean’s forehead. _“Wake up.”_

Dean blinks into full consciousness within three seconds. “Did it work?” He starts, eyes wide. “Cas, I can - She had blonde hair, didn't she?” He breathes and smiles with all his teeth, the last of his tears spilling from his eyes. “Cas, I can remember her face! She - She was talking to me and kissed my cheek.” He wipes at his face, then frowns at his damp fingertips. “Did I cry?”

Cas forces out a curl of lips. “Time travel can do that to you. But everything is okay. It went very well. You were great.”

Dean grins all the wider at the praise. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” He’s one big ball of happy excitement, but Castiel has run out of strength to play along. He lets Dean leave ten minutes early, then collapses onto his own couch, rubbing his eyes. He will have to cancel his dinner with Balthazar (again). Stupid sine function graphs.

 

* * *

 

On a Thursday night in April, Jody finishes her nightcap and decides to head up to sleep. She stops by the boys’ room for a moment, intending to leave as soon as she checked on them, but the end of a whisper reaches her and makes her pause. She knows she’s eavesdropping, but she wants to know _so much,_ she can’t stop herself from lingering around the doorway.

“- should try sleeping in separate beds.”

“I know. We should.” She doesn’t hear Sam’s answering mumble, but Dean’s deeper speech is audible. “Yeah. Me neither. This way I know you are still here.”

That seems to make Sam raise his voice. “We have a forever family now, Dean. They won't take me away.” Now it’s Dean’s answer she doesn’t hear, from her foolish heart pounding in her ears. “They aren’t. But we can still love them, right?”

Jody takes a step back and smiles to herself, warmth blossoming in her chest. _I hope you will, Sam,_ she thinks and takes a step away, only to stop dead in her tracks once more.

“Cas helped me remember Mom today.” Dean murmurs and Jody’s stomach backflips, she is so glad to hear that. It must mean the world to finally see the face you’ve wanted to recall for almost as long as you knew it. “She… she had blonde hair. Kinda curly. And green eyes, like mine, you know? She was pregnant. We were talking in my bed and she kissed my cheek.” Jody hears sniffing and shaky breaths, then a watery laugh. “Her nose was all girly, like yours.”

“I don’t have a girly nose!” Sam squawks and the bedframe creaks and groans under shifting weights for a few seconds, then it goes quiet again. “Do you think next time he would take me back too?”

Dean hums. “Time travel is dangerous. I could see it took a toll on Cas too, he was beat. You can’t go, I’m sorry. But I'll tell you every detail I find out, okay?”

“Promise?”

Jody sighs and does what she should have done minutes ago, goes to the master bedroom and lies down next to her custom snore machine. She didn’t need to hear Dean’s answer to know what he said.

 


	5. Warped puzzle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jody doubts herself, there's a belated vacation, baguettes mean France and lots of firsts are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will get to hear the first thoughts from an important POV in here. Tell me what you think of it after reading. :)

 

 

_"O my dearest, nothing but shadow there_  
_where you walk with me through your dream:_  
_you tell me when the light returns."_

\- Neruda, Sonnet XXI.

 

* * *

 

Jody stares at the bills in her hand and thinks she might never become a good mother.

_“Ready?”_ Bobby had asked her before the finalization hearing, before they completed the adoption process. They barely had a blink of sleep the previous night and it was showing. At least Donna was there, distracting the boys and by that, taking an enormous weight off Jody’s shoulder. She nodded, wound too tight to say it once again. Yes, she was ready to become a parent on paper, she was already one at heart. But she might have overestimated her abilities.

Parenting didn’t prove to be much trouble in those first six months. Therapy was going well, Dean ditched the knife sometime after Sam’s eleventh birthday and Bobby had been elected to resident best friend ever since he showed Dean his priceless T206 Honus Wagner baseball card. Dean was going to start high school in September and they began sleeping in their own rooms with only occasional relapses. Jody felt high on life, back then. Now, only two months later, despondency is her second name.

It’s just, everything seemed to collapse on them after that near perfect day when they got permanent legal custody. Bobby had a car accident that almost put him into a wheelchair. He came out of it with a broken femur and a concussion that made him a grouchy hedgehog, but the hospital check, the cancelled vacation and the scare weren’t the worst of it by far. As it turned out, Dean got so hung up on the idea that it was his fault for some reason, that he had a setback and some of the delusions started filtering back. He cut up his Chemistry teacher’s handbag and broke her perfume, because he thought she was a witch. He beat up a bully twice his size, saying he was a golem. He got detentions, bombed the first couple of his tests and refused to get out of Sam’s bed at night. Drunken fights became a habit, and Jody had to ask Castiel for more frequent sessions before it got completely out of hand. It was an endless turmoil. Take last Thursday, for example. Dean stumbled home hours after curfew, three sheets to the wind and itching to cause havoc. It was raining, cold and merciless drops, but he stayed out in the yard, yelling at them from afar.

“Just go on! Come here and hit me like they always do! Keep hitting until I can’t move anymore, just do it, I’m asking.” He shouted and threw an empty wine bottle at a pile of chassis. Only fifteen and already breaking glass and Jody’s heart.

She was crying a little. Wanted to run out into the mud and drag him inside, but she was afraid Dean wasn't sober enough not to attack her with something sharp and dangerous. She wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ fight her son as if he was a criminal. She remembers how Bobby gritted his teeth and threw aside the cane he had to use until his leg got its strength back. “You are dancing on a real fine edge, boy.” He warned and limped down the porch steps.

Dean cackled like a maniac, spreading his arms. “Am I? And what are you gonna do about it?” He spun around, stumbling in his drunken gait. “Come on, then. I'm waiting! Take off that fucking belt and give me what I fucking deserve! Punish me!”

He was openly crying by then, voice scraping from all the shouting, and geared up to fight his way into a hospital. What he was not prepared for was getting tackled into a puddle of dirty rainwater by his brother. Sam pushed his way past Jody, ran out of the house and body checked him with unforeseen force, disregarding his own safety.

“Why - can’t you - stop?” Sam hissed and slammed him down into the ground once more, before wrapping himself around his torso and going slack.

After that, it took quite a lot of time to get Dean inside, take his wet clothes off and tuck him in. He was so drunk he passed out halfway and by the time they had him in bed, Sam was shaking like a leaf in his soaked jeans and shirt. When Jody spotted him, she cursed and rushed him into a hot shower, hoping against hope that he didn’t catch a cold. “We are gonna get through this together.” She told him and stroked the hair away from his forehead. “I know it, Sam.”

She's still positive they can do this, with or without antipsychotic drugs, but that conviction is thinning fast. And it might wear out today, depending on the explanation she gets about the fifty bucks missing from her wallet. She stares at the rest of her money, puts it on the table and wipes her eyes. They knew the kind of baggage they were going to pull on themselves by adopting these kids. Now, it’s time to deal with it the best she can.

“Did you take the money, Dean?” She pins him with the question as soon as he comes down from his room.

Dean slumps into a chair at the dining table and mutters a confirmation. “Yes.” At least he is honest.

“I put it aside for Bobby’s birthday cake.” It’s futile to threaten him in any way or aim for a guilt trip, she knows - she has been reading a lot lately. Tried to make sense of this whirlwind while keeping both herself and Sam afloat. She read and learnt and learnt and read, but she has to conclude that making sense helps nothing at all. Dean is silent as a grave. “Say something, please.”

He glances up at her, then bows his head in defeat. Apologetic body language, headstrong resistance. She rubs the bridge of her nose. “Why? I just don't understand. Is there something you need? Talk to me, darling.” What is she doing wrong? Sometimes it feels like the answer is everything.

“Jody…” Her name and the hacking cough that follows cuts her thoughts off.

“Sam!” She jumps and turns to see him by the stairs, wrapped up in a heavy blanket, eyes feverish and hair matted to his forehead.

“I'm sorry, it was my fault. Please don't punish him.” He begs, voice raspy and dry as the Atacama.

“Are you… are you sick?” It’s a rhetorical question, he can hardly stand on his own. And damnit, she knows how that happened. That night, if Jody paid more attention to him, if she took him to the bathroom right off, if she was a better mother… How did he even hide it? Granted, it was the weekend, but... She should have known. She should have. Where’s her sixth sense?

“Sorry.” Sam sniffs, the corners of his mouth drooping. “Are you going to send us back?”

“What?”

“Dean bought some medicine and tried to cure me on his own, but I still need a little more time… Just a few days, I swear...”

Jody gapes. “You think I'll send you away because you got sick?”

“Happened before.” Dean speaks up for the first time, rapping his knuckles on the table.

Jody’s rendered speechless. Eight months together and it seems as though nothing changed. They don’t get it that this is truly forever, not yet. “Oh Sam.” She holds out her hands. “Come here, let me hug you.”

She pulls him in tight and rubs his back, rocking back and forth. God, what a rollercoaster ride. “You are my children, okay? I love you. Forever. Even if you are sick or reckless or make me cry. I knew it since I met you.”

Sam burrows into her chest and nods against her shirt. A chair scrapes on the tiles - Dean stands up and comes over to her. He’s staring at his shoes until Jody reaches out and cards her fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” He mumbles and produces a bunch of wrinkled bills from his pocket - the change from the pharmacy.

They could still go get a cake with that, but Bobby’s not that fond of them anyway and Jody has an idea. She curls Dean’s fingers back around the money and smiles at his astonished expression. Looks like her remaining hope can survive this intact. “What do you say we make him a pie instead?”

 

* * *

 

Sam likes to keep a tally of the things he will write poems about once he figures out how to avoid unintentional bathos. He has a journal with a little lock - not a diary, that’s for whiny girls pining after their classmates, it's a journal - and he writes his thoughts in that. It’s full of memories and secrets, but he rarely has inspiration to go back and read what he found important when he started jotting them down a year ago, because he is so much more mature than he used to be and he thinks differently now. Like, he would not say tomato soup is the best meal ever (since it’s Jody’s broth) and in his mental library, thick caterpillars have migrated from “stuff to throw at Dean” to the “nope” section. Today, however, he has to sit on the plane from Sioux Falls to Los Angeles for three more hours, so he decides to examine how the previous Thanksgiving’s list looks like.

_\- a hug from Donna_  
_\- Madison’s shiny bracelet_  
_\- pigeons huddling on the school’s rooftop_  
_\- the mole between Dean’s pointer and thumb_  
_\- Ceasar salad_  
_\- Dean’s lips covered in lipstick (note to self: get evidence next time!)_  
_\- cobblers_  
_\- the sounds of a sleeping house_  
_\- cool lores Garth read about vampires ( ~~ballad?~~ )_  
_\- biting Dean’s wrist while wrestling_

He frowns at his words and takes a quick glance around before scratching out that last one. No one needs to know he found the taste of Dean’s skin interesting. Overall, it’s a pretty lame list in his opinion, so perhaps he had better tear out the whole page. This month, he’s bound to have better moments to try rhyming about anyway. He is eleven and a half now, has an awesome family and he is going on his first vacation, to California, no less. Salad isn't that fascinating anymore. This would be the happiest day of his life, if only Dean stopped freaking out in the seat next to him.

“Don’t wanna die, don’t wanna die, don’t wanna -” He has been like this ever since they took off, muttering to himself with his eyes squeezed shut.

Sam thought it would wear off in a minute, but nothing seems to improve and Jody is sitting with Bobby on the other side of the aisle. “We’re not gonna die, Dean.”

Dean wheezes. “Shut up.”

Sam sighs and flips his journal closed. “You can hold my hand if you want.” He doesn’t expect his brother to accept the offer, but to his amusement, Dean latches on with a vice-grip and that is that. Another snippet for Sam’s collection of not-poems.

 

Jody’s friends have a huge house in Santa Ana with bright green lawn, a friendly dog and a pool and everything. It’s warm and sunny outside, even though it’s November, and Sam vows that if he ever gets to go to college, he’s going to come here, to California, so that he will never feel cold again. It’d be a dream come true.

After dropping their luggage at their place, they all pile into an expensive car that has Dean in rapture and hightail it to Huntington Beach. Dean’s still morose from the flight and kind of a pain in the ass, but Sam can’t bring himself to care. It’s a beautiful day and he’s so happy his cheeks hurt from smiling. This is the first time he sees the ocean. The cornflower water and its white waves, the sound as they lap against the shore. It’s huge, infinite. Sam’s blown away by how insignificant the sight makes him feel. He spends minutes just gawking, taking it in and filling his heart with the joy that something this magnificent exists. Then he turns into a little boy and just wants to do everything all at once, hunting crabs, collecting shells, swimming, laughing, running.

They spend hours playing fetch with Claire, the dog, and chasing each other with the promise of a cold dunk if one of them catches their prey. Dean wears an unbuttoned, billowy shirt and swim trunks that bare more skin than Sam has ever seen outside of the shower. His freckles are coming out within minutes under the sun and Sam finds himself staring at them, spellbound. He never realised how much they fit Dean’s eyes, but it’s impossible to miss them now.

By the time they collapse in the sand, Dean’s cheeks have a pinkish hue, already burning, and Sam wants to run his fingertips over them to touch their warmth. “Fuck, it’s hot here.” Dean complains, rubbing his sweaty chest. His eyelashes glow white at the tips from the light.

Sam gulps, suddenly touch-starved. He’ll have to buy a new journal. “Why don’t you take your shirt off?” That earns him a tired glare. “I mean, no one else is around. Just me.”

“Jody and Bobby are over there.” Dean points at the deckchairs where the adults are in various states of sleep. He didn’t use to be self-conscious of his scars back when they lived in Kansas. Sam misses it sometimes, the easy confidence he radiated 24/7. Castiel is convinced it’s going to come back, but it’s still depressing to see him reluctant to show his body.

A light, salty breeze comes from the ocean and strokes through Sam’s floppy locks. He straightens his legs and pours warm sand over his knees, watches it wash over them and stick to the wet patches. He grabs another handful and starts piling it on the hand Dean’s leaning on. Somewhere behind them, Claire yips at a flock of gulls. Jody is laughing at Bobby’s face as the beer slips in his hand and spills over him. Sam traces a fingertip along the circle where Dean’s wrist disappears into the sand and soaks in the sunshine. “I really like it here.” He confesses.

Dean’s thumb twitches in response. The grains go tumbling down. “Yeah, ‘cause you get a tan while I can hop into LA to audition for the new Hellboy movie. They would save a lot on makeup.”

Sam bursts out laughing and ends up giving in to that urge he has been feeling this whole time. He shifts to the side until he is plastered over his brother’s back, arms around his shoulders. Dean allows about three seconds of that before he twists in the embrace, yanks him over onto the ground and the wrestling match is on, sand flying everywhere. It’s the best Thanksgiving Sam could dream of.

Missing a week from school is totally worth it if they can have this. They have delicious festive meals, go to the beach every day and enjoy the brief respite from the late autumn cold that’s waiting for them back home. (Home - how nice it is to have a place to call that now.) Then Dean meets Bela Talbot and it all goes to hell.

She is pretty and older, almost eighteen to Dean’s fifteen. Her cat-like eyes, coy smile and sensuous curves turn heads left and right, but she chooses to sink her claws into Sam’s fool of a brother and Sam resents the hell out of her for it. He knows Dean had girlfriends before. Hell, he knows he had sex too. But it’s not the same to watch it go down in front of his eyes, on the first real vacation they have ever had, when all Sam wants is a good time with the most important person in his life. It’s not that they do overt stuff, they don’t make out in plain sight or anything. But Dean sneaks out at night and Sam _knows_ why and that’s enough to ruin everything. Dean is an asshole.

Two nights before they fly back, he snaps. It turns ugly real quick. “Don’t you see how it makes me feel?” He yells across the room after fifteen minutes of venomous fighting, unconcerned whether they hear it on the other side of the house or not. “You leave me here to rot every night! And I can’t sleep, because I’m so worried about your sorry ass.”

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Dean bites back, voice laced with ire. “I’m finally having a good time after a _shitty_ year and you go ruin it with this bitching.”

“I'm just trying to look out for you!”

“Do you even know how to have fun?” He screams and throws his jacket at the door. “‘Cause I don’t think so. Sometimes I feel like if it wasn’t on paper, I wouldn’t even believe you are my brother!”

The words ring in the frosty silence that descends between them. Dean’s panting like he ran a marathon, but Sam finds it hard to breathe all of a sudden. ‘Cause that’s it, the truth, something neither of them mentions or they try to gloss over it when it comes up. They don’t look like brothers. While Dean is fair-skinned and tawny with green eyes, Sam is brown and tan; while Dean is athletic and strong, Sam is short and wiry and he hates it. He hates it so much. He wants to be like Dean. He wants people to look at him and say _‘hey, that must be Dean’s brother, let’s give him a noogie’,_ not _‘oh, they are adopted, remember? poor boy’_ . Yes, he is adopted, but not to _Dean,_ Dean is his flesh and blood, his only constant. He belongs to him, and not because of a stupid piece of paper. But it’s still true and it hurts. Sam tries, but he is different, his hair, his eyes, his personality - and now it seems like even Dean gives up on him… on this unbreakable connection Sam needs so much.

“I’m so sorry.” Dean whispers and takes a hesitant step forward. “I didn't mean it.”

“Of course you did.” Sam’s voice wavers. He wipes at his eyes, angry and crestfallen, but the tears tumble over his fingers, his cheeks, his nose, drop onto his shirt. “We are nothing alike.”

Dean is by his side in an instant, cupping his face in his calloused hands. “And that’s a good thing! Man, I’d hate it if you were a fuckup like me.”

“If you don't feel like my brother, then there’s no reason for you to love me anymore, is there?” Sam cries. “But then who’s going to love me in this world?”

There’s no stopping it, the exhaustion and the pain crush into him and he sinks to the floor, chest aching from the sobs he tries to keep inside. Dean follows him down and wraps his arms around his shoulders. “Sammy…”

Sam can’t even see his face anymore, the world has become blurry and distorted. He just wants to be left alone. “I’m sorry that I’m such a disappointment -”

“Shit, no! Just stop talking. You are not a disappointment, never. God, Sam…” Sam is wallowing in his sorrow so hard that it takes two seconds to register that Dean is kissing his temple. When it finally does, his body tenses up, then goes entirely limp, his weeping slowing down to a trickle. They never do this. Hugs, yes, but kisses… He can't remember the last time he got one of those. It makes him hiccup.

“You know I suck at this.” Dean mumbles into his hair. His chapped lips slide down to Sam’s cheek, then he pulls back to whisper into Sam’s ear. “Come on.”

He is leaning in to press another kiss there, but Sam turns at the last moment and their mouths align. Once again, they freeze. Dean is a hair's breadth away, eyes at half-mast, and the butterflies residing in Sam’s stomach flutter to life. The tip of their noses touch - it’s the closest Sam has ever been to another person. He can’t blink the remaining wetness off his eyelashes, because he can’t tear his gaze away from the strips of green staring at him. He leans forward, thinks ‘ _maybe…’,_ gets so close he smells the sweetness, but Dean jerks away and flops onto his back with a frustrated exhale.

And just like that, Sam is cold and a little terrified again. Did he…? Was it wrong? Does Dean hate him? Are they okay? “Dean?”

Dean sucks his lips into his mouth and kicks at Sam’s foot without looking. “You are the worst goddamn cockblock, little brother. Now gimme the fucking remote.”

The knot in Sam’s throat loosens and dissolves into nothing. They are okay. Dean’s not angry anymore. He called Sam little brother. He is not going out to have sex with Bela tonight and he might not use the other bed if Sam lets him choose the channel. Sam waits for his heart to settle, then smiles and throws the device at Dean’s stomach. “Screw you.” He says, layered with tentative affection.

Dean sits up and switches the TV to the Grey’s Anatomy reruns. He is smiling too. “Back at ya.”

 

* * *

 

Cas had the odd habit of categorizing his mornings as countries ever since he was a little kid chasing bees in the garden. Yesterday was Canada (chilly air, yellow-brown leaves, clear sky), the day before that, England (gloomy rain and a cold seeping into his joints). His last Spain-day was in the beginning of September and his gloveless fingers are missing it something fierce. He glances out the window of his office, sees a cyclist and thinks, _France_ \- but only because he ate a baguette and that puts today automatically in the long list of France-days, regardless of the weather. Maybe, he should revise his system, because his preference in pastries is not a random variable, therefore the outcomes do not conform to normal distribution. Before he can determine the required changes, there’s a knock on the door - first patient’s here. Which means Dean Winchester, tough cookie extraordinary.

“Good morning, Dean.” Cas smiles at the kid and gestures at his usual place on the sofa. Dean nods back and throws himself down with a sigh, which is a good indicator that he is bothered by something. Castiel sits in his chair, just about to ask, when the door cracks open again and the brilliant eyes of his assistant peak inside.

“Sorry, Dr. Novak, I forgot to give you your coffee.” She says and tip-toes over to his armchair. It’s a completely unnecessary measure, since Dean is seated across from them and he is nothing, but alert at the moment. He would not be awakened from trance by a noise if he is not in one.

“Hannah, we talked about this.” He sighs. “No need for formalities.”

She nods and tugs at the lapels of her grey blazer. She’s dressed in a tight, formal skirt and her eyes are very blue and sharp. Castiel is intrigued by them, by the patterns of her irises, so he stares back, watches the pupils dilate and contract, until someone - _Dean,_ oh, he’s here - clears his throat. Hannah flushes and puts the to-go cup on the low table with the houseplant. Then there’s a bit of an awkward silence before Cas remembers the imperative social norms and nods. “Thank you. I'll go back to work now.”

Hannah beams and rushes out of the room, leaving Cas alone with a smirking teenager who thinks hair gel is still a go and a beverage that gives him figurative hives. Yikes, Cas hates coffee.

“Hannah, huh?” Dean remarks as a conversation starter.

“She is my new assistant.”

Dean’s grin widens. “Bring you coffee often, Cas?”

“She is a dedicated employee.”

“I bet.” Dean replies and breaks into boisterous laughter. It’s a beautiful sight in and of itself, but given how rough a start they had, it’s almost like a mirage. Castiel finds himself smiling along until Dean sobers up and starts an uncharacteristical bout of hemming and howing. “Can we talk about something private?” He asks at last, hands tucked under his thighs.

Cas raises an eyebrow. “I thought we were already doing that.”

Dean’s mouth opens, then closes again for a few abortive attempts at speaking, before he licks his lips and blurts out. “Have you ever kissed a guy?”

It’s not as sudden a question as one would think. Patients often inquire after their therapists’ sexual orientation or practices, sometimes signalling their own availability. It’s the absolute taboo to indulge them in this aspect, but Cas has a hunch Dean is not asking for that. Thank God. Not that Castiel could give him pleasant stories about his various ways of courtship... He doesn’t have a good track record in relationships. His college girlfriend, April, was just about ready to kill him at the end - and he is in quite a predicament now as well. The signs of attraction he has been detecting in his assistant’s behaviour have left him discombobulated so far. The nature of her interest is yet to be determined. He would rather not talk about Crowley either, the doom of Castiel’s visiting professorship in Edinburgh, even if Dean wants to learn about male on male interactions. No, best not share this sort of personal information with a patient. However, Castiel has _splendid_ results in giving advice to teenagers in puppy love, so they could stick to that.

He gives Dean a playful look and tries to stir the focus back on the boy. “Have you?”

Dean blushes beet red, shaking his head. “But I wanted to.”

“Why not then?”

“I chickened out.”

“No shame in that. I didn't have the guts to say no to this coffee either, even though I don’t like bitter drinks.” Cas admits and in turn, Dean stops picking at his cuticle. He looks conflicted about the topic, which holds obvious importance to him, and Castiel wouldn’t be surprised if he was losing sleep over it. This is a good thing, actually. Not the lack of sleep, of course, but the shift in interests from demons to kissing. If Dean has the mental energy to start the normative steps in teenager development, they are back on track to finish his therapy.

“He must be pretty awesome.” Cas comments and means it. Anyone who catches this boy’s eyes beyond simple physical appeal has to be special.

Dean lets out the sigh of the lovesick. “Yeah.” His gaze flickers to Castiel’s, then skitters away just as fast. “I don't know if he likes me back or not.”

Oh, the petal plucking. _Effeuiller la marguerite._ “Does that mean you like him?”

The corners of Dean’s mouth twitch in a small smile and he blushes again. “I guess. It's complicated.” He shrugs and turns just enough for Castiel to spot the small furrow between his brows.

Oh. So _that’s_ the main problem, of course. “You feel guilty about it.” A curt nod. “Because he’s a boy?” Dean bites his lip and his eyes fall shut. He shakes his head. Looking at his metacommunication, a potential trouble occurs to Cas and he has to grip the armrests of his chair in alarm. They really don’t need more abuse in Dean’s equation. “He’s not an adult, is he?”

Dean wrinkles his nose and shoots him an affronted glare that almost makes him laugh, his relief tangible. “Why do you feel guilty, then?”

“I’m not supposed to want him.” A pause. “I would be a burden anyway.”

“Dean. You don’t have to put everyone before yourself. It’s okay to want things that aren't laid out before your shoes, it’s okay to _take._ If you want that boy, you _can_ woo him and let yourself be happy. Nobody has a right to stop you.”

Dean’s response is a doubtful chuckle. “You have no idea how bad it is. People wouldn’t approve.”

“You don’t always need their approval.” Homosexuality is not a sin, nothing to feel guilty for. Castiel has to get it across. “It’s okay to love who you love. It’s nobody’s business, but his and yours.”

Out of all their sessions, Dean has never looked this uncomfortable before. “I wanna talk about something else.”

Cas could force the issue, get to the bottom of it, but Dean has had a rough patch and he wants to give him some leeway. “Okay. You can choose a topic.”

Dean clears his throat, then takes a gulp from the glass of water Cas always prepares for their sessions. This is the first time he even touched it. His hands are trembling. “How… How is Sammy doing?”

“He is doing well.” Cas watches his reactions, but they don’t supply him with the piece he is missing, nothing adds up. Why so nervous today? “Hannah had the pleasure to shake his hand yesterday.”

“Really? He hasn’t told me. That’s great.” Dean’s smile is a flittering thing, a jittery flash. “Did he, uh… Do you two talk about me?”

Cas frowns and tilts his head sideways. “What are you curious about?”

Dean shrugs and clears his throat again. “Just wanna know what he thinks about… stuff.”

Perhaps it’s about Dean’s fluctuating self-confidence. “He looks up to you, Dean.”

“I feel like we are growing apart.”

Cas nods. Insecurity, like he thought. “That doesn’t have to be a bad thing. It’s natural - you are both developing your own selves and identities. What you may perceive as him being distant might just be him stepping out of your shadow.” Dean takes another sip of water. Castiel smiles. They can work these nerves out, he knows. “Be patient. He’s not going to leave you.”

 

* * *

 

Sam had his last therapy session three days ago and he is itching to make Jody call and get him one more appointment. It feels strange that he doesn’t have a therapist to share his difficulties with. He got used to thinking in terms such as _‘gotta tell Castiel this’_ and _‘don’t forget to bring that up’._ Although, it’s sort of liberating too. In the last few months, he had been hiding some of his thoughts, so at least Cas can’t prod at them anymore.

He is lying on his stomach and reading _The adventures of Tom Sawyer_ in his bed, his brain slowly leaking out of his ears from boredom, when he hears a series of rapid footsteps and his brother drops all over him. Sam huffs and struggles to take a breath with 140 pounds on his back. “Get off!” He squirms.

Dean titters into his ear and swipes the book aside. “It’s my birthday, Sammy boy. No school stuff on my birthday.”

“Deeean.” He whines. Dean has been saying things like that since this morning - _‘no rabbit food on my birthday, put those carrots back’, ‘no Nat Geo today’_ \- it’s starting to grate on Sam’s nerves. What is he allowed to do? Stuffing his face with chips and soda and belching at monster truck shows? “It’s almost midnight, your birthday is over. Let me read in peace.”

Dean ignores him in favour of toppling them both onto the floor. Sam hits his elbow, right at the point that makes his entire forearm go numb and tingle with pins and needles. “Ow, you ass.” He moans in pain and clutches at the sensitive spot.

There’s a tug on his wrist. “Come out to the yard with me.”

_“Now?”_

“No, on a freakin’ blue moon, of course now!”

Sam sprawls in a manner he dubbed as ‘the lazy starfish’ and looks at his brother. If he didn’t know better, he would say Dean was on edge. Huh. Did he wait until Jody and Bobby fell asleep? That wouldn’t bode well for Sam. Besides, it’s below freezing out there, he doesn’t wanna leave his room. “It’s cold.” He pouts.

Dean stands up and digs his big toe into his ribs. “Don’t be a pussy.”

“Are we having a prank war?” Sam groans and starts crawling towards his wardrobe. If this is a part of some elaborate plan, Dean is _so_ going to regret messing with him.

“Jeez, it’s my birthday. Just wanna show you something.”

Sam faceplants into the puffy coat he tugs off his desk chair. “Okay.” He mutters and tries to gather the willpower to stand up and find a sock.

 

In the yard, the moon is bright and almost full, casting looming shadows on the ground. There are absolutely no stars visible and Sam can’t spot anything even remotely interesting in walking distance. He wonders what Dean is going to pull. Something scary? Well, Sam is not afraid in the dark, so he’s gonna enjoy seeing Dean’s expression after his stupid prank fails.

“Let’s sit here for a sec.” Dean says after they walked a good fifteen meters away from the house and hops on the hood of a wrecked Ford. With a hint of trepidation, Sam climbs up next to him. Is it gonna collapse under him or what? “I like to come here to think sometimes. Feels safer than a closed space.” Dean explains, then clears his throat and looks down at his lap. “So, uh… Cas told me to try… to try saying stuff to you first.”

That sounds serious. Sam’s heart falters. What if it’s about his secrets? Did Cas realise what he was hiding? “Stuff?”

“Yeah. Like, a conclusion, you know? So this is it, I guess. I'm gonna say it outright.” Dean takes a huge breath, then tips his head back to stare up at the moon. “Demons don't really exist. There are monsters in this world - but they are a hundred percent human. When I - when they hurt me, it wasn't because of magic or a big, complex plan to take over the world. They were bad people and that’s all.” Sam watches the fog of his warm exhales dissipate in the chill around them and feels his throat constrict. How it must hurt, admitting that the suffering was pointless, just someone’s sick game. It was hard enough for him, he can’t even imagine the kind of work getting Dean to this point took. He shuffles closer and puts a hand on Dean’s arm. Dean’s eyes jump to his, shiny and honest, and hold his gaze. “You are not in danger anymore. You are safe.”

Sam tightens his grip. “Yes, I am.” He whispers.

“I know now that I had… some problems in my head. Delusions and shit. We both did. But they are gone now and I'm glad for that.” Dean says, just as quietly, and bends his head down. “So glad, Sammy.”

It’s nothing like the last time they came this close. The night is a solemn blanket over them, still and silent. There are neither tears nor shouting, just Sam’s pulse pounding in his ears. They don’t look at each other, not really, just sway forward inch by inch until there’s nothing between them and their foreheads touch. Sam inhales the crisp air and slides his hand up to Dean’s chest, presses on the bump of the amulet. Dean’s breath is a puff of mist on his lips, unsure. Sam’s not.

“Me too.” He closes his eyes and lets it happen, gives in to the pull he feels in his entire body and kisses Dean on the mouth.

It’s only a peck, an innocent gesture of comfort, but there’s much more behind it and Sam thinks Dean understands. In this moment, he feels it crushing into him, their life after the fire, the things Dean did, what they went through, that aimless drifting. He’s aware of its weight in his bones, and how it drains out of him when there’s a tiny answering push and Dean turns his head to fit them closer together, warped puzzle pieces, never close enough. Sam’s future poems flit through the gaps between his fingers. Dean’s thumb on his chin, his cold nose digging into Sam's cheek, the scent of his skin around them, his thudding heart under Sam’s palm, the moonlight, softness, warm chest, stuttering exhales, Sam's first kiss. Sensory overload.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O_O


	6. Sympathy for spiders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Girls, boys, dances, sex, jealousy and rejection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I have been on a vacation. Thank you for all the kudos and comments. :)
> 
> Sam-centric chapter, covers his last two years before high school, from age 12 to around his 14th birthday. Underage warning applies!

 

 

 _"You are here. Oh, you do not run away._  
_You will answer me to the last cry._  
_Curl round me as though you were frightened._  
_Even so, a strange shadow once ran through your eyes."_

\- Neruda, Every day you play

 

 

* * *

 

–6x2yz + 4y2z + 7y2z + 11x2yz

Simplify. Simplify. Come on, Kevin, you can do this. Only one more to go. 6x2yz+11x2yz equals 17x2yz and - shit, there’s a negative - _Sigh._ \- so 4y 2z+7y2z is 11y2z, right? And that means 5x2yz+11 - _Sigh._

“What?” Kevin hisses at his best friend. How can he start daydreaming in class when a third of their midterm grade is on the line? They can’t mess this up!

“Huh?” Sam jerks up from his slouch and glances around as if only just noticing the desperate faces of their classmates, who are convinced Math is a type of Ancient Egyptian without its Rosetta Stone. Kevin thinks it must be the language of God. But he _can’t fucking translate it_ if Sam’s lovelorn exhales keep fluttering his sheets.

“Your brooding disturbs my process.” He narrows his eyes at Sam. “Do you know what happens when my process is disturbed? Mistakes!”

“No talking during test, Mr. Tran!” Mr. Shurley calls out from his desk where he is probably writing “witty” pieces for the school paper _again._ Their focus varies between showing off his expertise and advertising his autobiographic blog. Kevin swears that guy thinks he is omnipotent.

“Seriously. Can it.” He glares once more at his friend for good measure, then turns back to figuring out the depths of seventh-grade algebra. Scoring an A+ is a huge responsibility and he needs to concentrate.

“Sorry.” Sam mumbles. Kevin is resolute to ignore him, but then he hears the shriek of a metallic chair scraping on cheap floor and he has to glance up and gape as Sam grabs his stuff and hands his test in without completing the last five questions. Something’s definitely wrong. Well, tough luck. It has to wait until Kevin finishes acing this shit.

 

He ends up cornering Sam in the cafeteria three hours later. “What was that in Math?” He waves a banana at him threateningly.

Sam’s gaze darts from the fruit to Kevin’s bangs and back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You handed it in without doing the last five. I saw.”

“I had enough good answers for an A.” Sam explains and plops down on a bench, pulling Kevin along before the braindead bullies at the corner table take notice of his grandpa cardigan. (It's not his fault, his Mom insists he has to look smart.) “I just didn’t feel like sitting there any longer.”

Kevin does a double-take. “Are you okay, Sam?”

“Sure.”

“Because you’ve been acting weird all day.”

“Weird how?”

“Weird like someone with a crush.” Kevin comes to a horrifying realisation. “Oh my God, is it a teacher? Don’t tell me it’s Mr. Shurley.”

“What? That’s ridiculous.” Sam’s expression of bewilderment is so over the top that it might as well pass as a confirmation.

And there goes Kevin’s appetite. “Mr. Shurley, Sam? Ew.”

“No, I’m not - whatever. Think what you want.” Sam waves a hand at him and starts poking at his food. He doesn’t look too hungry either. Maybe he does regret that botched test now. “Um, by the way, can you tell your Mom I don’t need a ride today?”

Way to change the topic, just when it started to get interesting… “Yeah. Why don’t you need it?”

“Dean is picking me up.”

“Wow, did he get his license?” Sam nods, spearing a piece of meatloaf on his fork then curling his lips in disgust. Kevin wholeheartedly agrees. Their school lunch today is the grossest thing that has graced this canteen since the infamous Barfaroni Incident. “That’s awesome.”

“Uh-uh.”

“I thought you’d be happy you don’t have to hear my Mom’s latest intel about college stats.” Kevin would be happy too. In fact, he should ask if he could maybe-perhaps-pretty-please catch a ride with Dean from now on.

“Oh, I am.” Sam blurts out, then panics. “Not that your Mom is annoying or -”

“It’s okay, I get it.” Kevin grins. “So, what’s up, your brother’s giving you shit?

“No.” Sam stares into the distance, deep in thought. “There’s… something we don’t agree on and it’s a little tense nowadays.”

Kevin grimaces. “I know the feeling. Mom and I can be like that sometimes.”

Sam gives him a condescending look. As if no one else’s trouble could be similar to his own. “That’s not the same.”

He could beg to differ, but trivial arguments are a waste of time and he needs five minutes at the end of this break to go over his cello sheets. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“God, no.” Sam’s eyes widen and he shakes his head. A flock of girls from their grade chooses that moment to pass their table. Some of them giggle - most likely at Kevin’s hideous haircut (thanks, Mom) - and Jessica turns to flash them a little smile. She’s pretty, but way out of Kevin’s league, so he suspects a sizeable amount of pity at play. Sam doesn’t even glance up from tracing a repetitive pattern into the checkered tablecloth. Is that a heart?

“Hey, do you think Channing would come to the winter formal with me?” Kevin elbows him. Yeah, there are four months till that, but he has to start asking around before he gets stuck with Brace-face Becky.

“Huh?”

“Dude. You are so spacey I’m surprised no one sent you to the nurse yet.” He raises his eyebrows. “Me plus Channing plus dance equals…?”

Sam makes a face. “Disaster?”

That sounds about right. Kevin sighs and props his chin up on the heel of his hand dejectedly. “It's so much easier for you. Your brother’s cool, girls dig your smile and you don't have any zits.”

“Excuse me?” Sam laughs. “Did you forget about my third eye last week? And Dean’s not cool. He just _thinks_ he is.”

That’s the complete opposite of the truth in Kevin’s opinion. He hasn’t seen much of Dean, but Sam can’t shut up about him since last winter and it feels as though Kevin knows him inside and out. Seeing him that afternoon when they filter through the school gates is like meeting a celebrity. He’s wearing loose jeans, a black shirt, boots and a leather jacket that’s vintage enough to look cool instead of pretentious. His blondish hair is spiked and he is palming the hip of a stunning brunette who’s mouthing at his jaw. He looks like he stepped off a magazine cover with those broad shoulders and athletic build. The only thing that indicates his actual age is the flush rising to his cheeks as Kevin and Sam draw closer to the truck he’s leaning against.

“Hiya, Sammy.” He drawls.

“Dean.” Sam mutters, glaring. “This is my friend, Kevin.”

A pair of green eyes fixes on Kevin with an intensity that makes him shiver. “Nice to meet ya.” Dean smirks, then throws a candy at his brother. “Hop in, kiddo. We’ll leave in a minute.”

The girl in his arms dismisses them after a once-over and reaches out to touch the jewel hanging from Dean’s neck. Kevin bets that’s something great too, perhaps a shark tooth or a claw. Dean catches his girlfriend before she can close her hand around it and turns the movement into a kiss. And not a chaste one either - he full-on frenches her (with tongue and everything!) with a sound so obnoxious Kevin is ready to pop a boner.

What stops him is the expression on his best friend’s face. Sam is rooted to the spot, staring at the sight with the sweet hanging from his limp hand. The green-eyed monster is trashing in his gaze, sets his face aflame. Kevin has never seen a guy so jealous before, it’s almost scary. And wow, that must suck, having a crush on your _brother’s girlfriend._ She’s older and gorgeous and so very, very taken. No doubt things are tense with Dean nowadays - this is an equation that not even Kevin could solve.

 

* * *

 

Sam startles awake with a soundless cry, shaking and swimming in sweat. It’s pitch black in his room. His nightmare lingers behind his eyelids, between every ragged breath he takes and in the taste of copper on his tongue. His heart is pounding. He wants to go to Dean, but they are not on the best of terms right now and he would rather not test the waters. It has been ten months since they kissed each other, ten months of agony and fighting. Sam stopped pushing it since summer passed, but it’s not like it got easier just because he went from clingy to avoidant.

Calming thoughts should help, right? He turns to lie on his side and puts a hand on the cold wall that separates their rooms, trying to swallow the remnants of terror in his throat. Dean must be tangled in his blanket by now, bundled into a giant burrito. He used to end up that way when they had to sleep separately, always cold alone. Or… that might have changed too. So many things did. Sam bites his lip to ward off the tears stinging in the corners of his eyes, but it’s not a blazing success. What did he do wrong? Why does he deserve this? He had plenty of time to convince himself it didn’t happen, that Dean didn’t kiss back but pushed him away, that he forced the whole thing. But his mind bends itself in loops and arrives back to the same memory, something beautiful and mutual. Nothing indicated things were going to plummet. Dean walked him back to his room, hugged him tight and smiled, wished him goodnight. Why did he do a 180° the next morning?

He raises his other hand and touches his lips, tries to imitate the pressure of their kiss, but not even the pads of his fingertips are as soft as Dean’s plump lips have been. What did he smell like? He can hardly remember. The wall under his palm is cold and unyielding, nothing close to Dean’s chest. He misses it so much. They have become so distant and rigid they stopped touching altogether and it’s Sam’s fault. Everything is his fault. He is such a...

Sam wrenches the covers off himself, sits up and wraps his arms around his torso. A teardrop rolls past his nostril. Should he wake Jody up? But it’s a workday tomorrow. He doesn’t want to bother anyone. But he can’t go back to sleep alone either. He can’t take another nightmare, he can’t.

“Please don’t be mad.” He whispers to the wall and slips out of bed. His bare feet make soft sounds on the floorboard as he pads out of his room, shivering in his sweat-damp clothes. It’s snowing outside and the lone window at the end of the hallway is covered by frostwork. Bobby’s snoring drifts over from the master bedroom. Sam spends a second listening to it with his hand on Dean’s doorknob, trying to sync his wheezing breaths to its calm pace.

The door creaks when he steps inside, but nothing stirs. The room is lit by the soft glow of a plug-in night light because Dean doesn't like complete darkness. They got it from Jody’s friend as a temporary measure not long after starting therapy, then it sort of stuck and it’s not like Dean is going to ask for a new one. It’s designed for babies - a smiling crescent moon that casts tiny stars on the wall behind Dean’s bedside table. Sam would tease him about it to no end if he didn’t know the reasons why Dean needed it. Dean’s room is smaller than his own, but there’s no bookcase in it. No decorations either, just a poster of a car above the desk and a picture of the two of them on the nightstand, a shot from Jody’s thirty-seventh birthday. He would have thought it was wasting away in a box somewhere. Seeing it makes him tear up again, turns his vision watery. The faint light makes Dean's prone figure colorful, a mix of green and blue that reminds Sam of a shimmering sea creature. A peaceful thing that has never been touched by a harsher wave in its life. His lips are parted and his hair is all mussed up, the covers tugged up to his chin. He looks like home. “Hey.” Sam murmurs, trying to keep his distance.

Dean’s a light sleeper. He must know Sam is here, but he fakes sleep until Sam tiptoes over and slides under the blanket. Then he snuffles and shifts onto his back, leaving his arm outstretched as an invitation. Sam lets out a relieved breath and cuddles into the spot, buries his face in the crook of Dean’s neck and never wants to come out again. He twists a hand in his brother’s shirt like he did when he was a little kid and goes slack. The panic starts fading away. Dean’s sleepy exhales ghost across his brow. “You have your own bed.” He grunts.

His neck holds the smell of detergent, salt and clear skin and he got so warm in his blanket-burrito that Sam’s icy limbs burn wherever they touch his body. “I wanna stay with you tonight.”

A long, comfortable silence stretches between them. Dean curves his hand around Sam’s forehead to check his temperature for a fever, half-asleep and going on instinct. Finding the skin cool, he hums and lets his fingers drop. He combs through the sweaty strands of Sam’s hair. “Nightmare?”

Sam sniffs, then swallows a tear. Those awful images still flash in his eyes whenever he closes them, destruction and mouths open around silent death screams. Dean hums again, loose-limbed and dozing. One of his fingers curls a lock of Sam’s hair around, around, around until a tiny coil is sticking away from the side of his head. Emboldened and starving for comfort, Sam tips his head up and kisses his jaw.

“No.” Dean’s tone turns hard as steel and he moves to pull his arm out from under Sam’s head.

Sam traps him with an arm across his chest. “Dean, I -”

“We can't.” Dean cuts him off, eyes wide open now. “It’s _wrong.”_

This is the first time they talk about it, that they acknowledge that something happened that pushed their world off its axis. The words hurt, God knows they do, but uncertainty pains more and Sam can’t go on like that anymore. This is his first chance to discuss it, he won’t let it pass. “You kissed me back.” He says quietly and his heart pounds double time. Now that the word, _kissing,_ is real and out in the open between them, it seems scarier than ever before. “Did you not mean it?”

He can feel Dean’s chest tremble when his voice loses stability. “I… It was a mistake. A very stupid one. Can’t happen again. Go back to your room.” He sighs and pulls away at last, turns his back to Sam. He didn’t deny anything.

“Please, let me stay.” Sam reaches out to trace the shape of his spine the way he used to when they were little and Dean tried to sleep through his babbling, but he’s afraid to close the distance tonight. Somehow, this is what hammers the new reality in. They built _lines,_ ugly borders with barbed wire fences that he cannot traipse over the way he did before.

“In my dream, I... opened the gates of Hell.” He murmurs and pulls his legs closer to his stomach, curling up. “I drank demon blood, like some sick vampire, then let every evil out into this world, thinking I was doing the right thing all along. I - I got possessed by Satan himself. And he said - he said it was easy. That I was made for him.” He can smell the rotten stink in the bridge of his nose, taste the metallic fluid in his mouth again. _You are mine,_ the devil laughed. He didn’t even have horns. “You told me I was the worst of all the monsters and there was nothing to make it right again, I ruined everything…”

Abruptly, Dean flips around and grabs Sam’s face with both hands. “How the hell did you make up this shit?” He mutters. Sam swallows the sorrow bubbling up from his chest in a sob. “You are the best person I know. _The best._ I’d never think of you like that. And you'd be the one to fight those evils off, anyway. We’re hunters, remember?” He adds playfully. How pathetic is it that they thought that was the reality?

“I just… I feel so guilty.”

“About… you know?” Dean gnaws on his lip. There are worry-lines on his forehead. Sam could play oblivious and make him say it, but he is too tired. All he wants is his churning stomach to settle.

“About the way we acted since then.” He admits quietly. “You shut me out and I… It has been ten months, Dean. I just want my brother back.”

There’s a long moment when he thinks Dean is going to send him away after all. Then an arm snakes back under his neck and he is pulled forward into a wall that’s neither cold, nor rigid, but just right as he pushes his palm against it. “I’m here.” Dean whispers. It sounds close to an apology. Sam’s eyes shut on their own volition. Lucifer doesn’t come back that night.

 

When he wakes up the next morning, it’s still early enough that he could go back to blessed oblivion. But there’s something digging into his lower back. At first, he thinks it might be Dean’s hand trapped between their bodies, so he shifts against it with an annoyed frown, only to go stock still when Dean sighs in his sleep. Holy shit. That’s not his hand. What now? Sam wiggles his butt experimentally and there’s another sound, a quiet moan. Is this how he sounds when he's having sex? Arousal floods lava-hot into Sam’s veins at the thought and his dick springs up in his pants like a beanpole. Fuck.

This is really new for him. This tingling and pressure down there. He discovered it felt good to touch it, but he never got anywhere with it and just stopped after a while. It always went away on its own anyway. He has been baffled by the interest Dean has for sex, because if it’s anything like that, it isn’t a big deal at all. A little pleasurable, like a single cube of chocolate, nothing more. Or, it’s possible that Sam is defected and doesn’t experience it like everyone else.

He waits for it to soften as usual, but he might have been completely wrong about this one, because it doesn’t flag, keeps standing proud and sending insistent signals of need. This is different. It’s stronger than the pull of sleep and passes over the threshold of Sam’s dimming conscience too. God, he has to touch it. He slips out from Dean’s embrace at a snail’s pace so as not to wake him, then practically runs into the bathroom, shucks his clothes and jumps into the shower in record time. The water’s only just heating up, but the lukewarm flow of it doesn’t even register through the throb of lust in his brain.

His dick looks angry red and it jerks when he runs his fingers over it. There’s some pearly fluid on the tip of it. Is that cum? But if he already came, where’s the relief? Sam takes a deep breath and leans his forehead against the tiles. It feels like he’s going to pee, but there’s something else too, an itch that he can’t stop scratching no matter how hard or fast he rubs his length. He flushes all the way to his chest as if he ran a mile at top speed. The pressure is rising up and up, the waves of it keep crashing together and oh God, he is going to pee himself, it’s going to burst, it’s going to come out now, he can’t hold it, this is it, he’s going to let it happen.

Sam’s whole body spasms and his desire completely overcomes him like nothing before. He can’t think about anything, just the hot liquid spurting over his hand and a flashing image of Dean’s cherry pink lips, shiny and wet… He wants to stop, but he has no control over his body, the rush of euphoria and satisfaction slams through him and sucks him out of reality. He’s pretty sure he’s making some sounds that aren’t quite human. It ends after the longest seconds of Sam’s life and he almost tumbles down to the floor, head buzzing. Sweet Jesus. So that is an orgasm.

He cleans up like a robot, crawls out of the shower and pulls his clothes back on without even toweling. His hair is soaked and flattened to his head. Now that the delight of it passed, guilt and dread trickle into its place. What if someone heard? What if _all of them_ did? Are they waiting outside? He might just throw up. Did he say his brother’s name?

The rapid thudding of footsteps tears him out of his freak out. He jumps up just in time to pretend he is fussing with his hair in front of the sink when Dean barges in and shoves him aside, a look of urgency on his face.

“Hey! I was here first.” Shit, what if there’s an obvious smell in here or something?

But Dean says nothing, just pushes him out the door, barely manages to swing it half-closed, turns back, opens the toilet lid and starts pissing with a noisy groan of relief. “Fuck. I'm never drinking tea again.”

Sam is vaguely disgusted, but a little bit curious too. He wants to look, just a peek, but his mind replays the last seconds of his orgasm and he rushes back to his room, discomfited. If he thought for a moment that Dean was going to act awkward around him, he was grievously mistaken. Dean is not awkward at all. Sam is.

 

* * *

 

 

“Drink! Drink! Drink!” The group around Jess chants as Brady gags down the mix of milk, pepper, ketchup and cocoa someone tossed together. She's one of the last few who are sober enough to be repelled by what has been going on here in the last half an hour. This is her first real party, at Brady's house, no less, and she has been dolled up for a bit of slow dancing and making out with the handsome host, not boys getting drunk on cheap beer and truth or dare. Her parents would be very disappointed if they knew.

She has come with the sole purpose of getting a date for the eighth grade formal. It’s less than two months away and she has been upset that no one asked her out, but her friends reassured her that the only people brash enough to do the asking were members of the football team and, funnily enough, Kevin Tran. The others are still working on growing a pair. So, she came to get that date for herself. She is much more mature than them anyway. Her original plan was seducing Brady, which was bound to be easy since they have already made out once before on her fourteenth birthday, but somewhere along the way she changed her mind. There is a more appealing prospect who, while not exactly having the brawn, has all the brains and lots of cuteness to top it off.

Brady finishes his disgusting cup, belches, then points an unsteady finger at Sam Winchester. “Truth or truth?”

Sam grins. He has dimples, which will look stunning on their prom pictures if Jess manages to lure him in. (She is planning ahead, it’s not a crime.) “I don’t think that’s the game.”

“Whatevs.” Brady blinks the haze out of his eyes. He has drunk four beers, a glass of wine and that puke-cocktail, it’s amazing that he’s able to talk. “Who was your first kiss?”

Nerdy Kevin breaks into a fit of giggles next to him, but Sam pays it to no mind. His cheeks are flushed, so Jess suspects he is tipsy, but his words are clear when he leans back against the sofa with a lazy smile and says “My brother.”

She gapes like a fish (ugh, so unattractive, has to quit that habit). Out of all the scandalous crap her classmates revealed tonight, this goes miles over things like Lisa licking a snail in first grade. Then the stunned silence cracks into raucous laughter and she gets it - he has never kissed anyone before. It’s kind of cute. Not that they are very experienced. Quite the contrary, she knows that most of the people here lied about kissing this neighbour or that high school student they made up in their minds and there's no way Brady got to third base with a college freshman. But it’s still cute, because Sam trying to lie is like Mr. Shurley singing at school functions, so bad that it’s funny.

“Man, so fucking transparent.” Brady slurs and claps Sam on the shoulder. “Lying means you have to do a dare.” He ignores Sam’s weak protests and points at something between Cole and Pamela (who is such a slut, by the way, Jess can’t stand her constant flirting, that girl thinks every guy is her property). “Kiss the coolest person in this room.”

The group erupts in cheers and someone spills a cup of kalimotxo on the carpet. Sam blushes crimson and his eyes dart around sending SOS signals to anyone who cares to look, but none of them spare him mercy. His gaze keeps coming back to Jess, at least she thinks so, and she should know when a boy wants her because she read about it in last month’s Cosmo. This is so great! Sam is the smartest boy in her class and not in that total loser way that Kevin aims for, and he is good at soccer too. A real catch, even better than Brady. She flutters her lashes the way she saw her Mom do when her Dad brings her roses and Sam’s pupils dilate in response. He brushes his bangs away (so cute!) and goes to stand up, then seems to freeze mid-motion and glance somewhere to the side. She follows his gaze and realises with a jolt that Brace-face Becky is still there, hugging her knees and looking close to tears. Jess would feel sorry for her, because Brady and his minions have been really mean to her in the past hour, but that girl only has herself to blame. She has been invited merely because her father is a business partner of Brady’s Dad, she should have known not to come. Didn’t she get enough at school?

“Come on, you can admit it’s me.” Brady grins and high fives Pam the Slut. (What for? That was lame.)

Sam sighs and gives Jess another look, something forlorn and determined, then takes two quick steps and… and kisses Becky on the corner of her mouth.

“Woa!” Brady hoots and pumps the air like a grade-A douche. He starts laughing again, clutching his stomach, and begins some elaborate joke about how good that prank was, making Becky believe that Sam thought she was the coolest. Sam casts his eyes down and mutters something to her that Jess doesn’t hear, then he grabs his cup and disappears towards the kitchen. Becky stares after him in wonder, clearly not getting it that Sam didn’t mean that (duh, how could he?), and looks ready to follow him to that relative seclusion. Now, Jess can’t let that happen, so she scrambles up, smooths a hand down her floral skirt and takes the opportunity for herself.

She finds him leaning against the counter, scratching the label of the coke bottle in his hand. “She’s gonna have a huge crush on you.” Jess starts, then a wave of jitters hits her, because this is the first time she feels that someone might like her back for something other than her beauty and it’s way too exciting. What if she could get her very first boyfriend tonight? Jesus, Pam would be so jealous.

Sam smiles and puts the soda down. “Yeah. But she looked so sad.” He shrugs. “I wanted to do something for her, but I just messed it up even more, didn’t I?”

Jess doesn’t think so. He made her terrible night into a half-nice memory, she couldn’t have asked for more. “You’re so sweet.” She curls her lips coyly and steps close enough that her pumps brush the insides of his worn sneakers.

They are the same height (perfect, dancing’s going to be great). Slowly, she puts a hand on his wrist and slides it down until their fingers tangle. Sam’s eyes go wide. With that expression and the floppy hair, he looks like a clueless little fox and she can’t resist anymore, leans forward and catches his lips between her own. (She’s giving him his first _real_ kiss! She always wanted to be someone’s first.) He’s clumsy as hell, but relaxes into it once she puts his hovering hands on her waist and it’s a lovely kiss after that. Saccharine from the coke and a tiny bit sticky (damn her lip gloss), but one of the best kisses of her life so far, because when she pulls back and hooks her arms around his neck, Sam asks the most important question, the question she has been waiting for the whole year.

“Would you like to come to the dance with me?”

 

* * *

 

 

Sam has no idea how he got into this clusterfuck, but he is in a dusty P.E. equipment room with his soccer pants around his ankles and Jessica between his legs, kissing his neck and rubbing her boobs against his chest. There are basketballs behind his back and the place stinks to high heaven like only used sports apparel can, sweat-rubber-dirt-rotting-death, but against all odds, he is stupidly, achingly hard. Jess intercepted him after practice when the adrenaline was still pumping through his veins and pounced. There’s only one month left of junior high and he is going to get himself expelled for indecency any minute now. “Jess, please, I don’t think -”

“I want to try this today, Sam. You’ve been putting it off for weeks.” She smiles at him wickedly and at the moment, he regrets it to his core that he asked her out a few months ago. He tries to keep her boxers up, but her persistency seems to come out as the winner. “Think of it as a birthday gift.”

She kisses him and her bubblegum taste and fruity-sweet smell distract him enough that the stupid underwear slides down, down, down his legs and lands around his shin pads. He goes stiff, his thoughts going around like a stampede of wild horses, _shit, please don’t touch, Jess - does it look normal? - what’s that wetness, should not be leaking that much, right?_

She pulls back, bites her lower lip and lets her gaze drop to Sam’s exposed erection. Jesus. His girlfriend is looking at him. She’s looking at him and biting her lip. Is he disgusting or is he okay? What about the size? Why are they doing this next to the hula hoop rack? She hums and leans harder into him, walking her fingers down along his sternum and abdomen and - and Sam is going to die. This is - what is she even - oh God.

“Is this okay?” She whispers as her soft hand curls around him and moves up in a tentative stroke.

“Oh God” Sam repeats out loud. Jess grins, takes it as consent, and puts one of his hands on her cleavage as if this was normal, but they have never done anything like this before, not even that one time when they made out under the bleachers. Her grip feels amazing. Warm and soft and surprising. The pressure inside him rushes to the peak like a freight train. He whimpers and pleads his mind to think of unattractive things, but after the image of Bobby in a mini skirt the traitorous thing goes for _Dean_ in a mini skirt and the white-hot desire scuds through him so fast that his knees buckle.

“Sorry, sorry…” He mumbles, but he can’t stop the pleasure and the evidence ends up on her hand for the most part. He doesn’t know which thing he apologizes for - making a mess in, like, five seconds flat or fantasizing about his brother while his hot, perfect, wonderful girlfriend gave him a handjob? He lets out a short, breathy laugh that may or may not sound unhinged and pulls his pants back up. “Have you done this before?”

Jess wipes her hand in his shirt. To her credit, she looks only mildly put off by the texture. “No, but…” She kisses his cheek. “Girls watch porn too. And let me tell you -” She gives his junk a pointed look. “- you have promising qualities.” Then she kisses him again, on the lips this time, and while Sam hasn’t died after all, he is increasingly certain that he is going to be manhandled through this relationship until an apple-pie marriage and 2.5 kids. He isn’t sure he minds, though.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, he’s walking home and singing a different song. This thing with Jess isn’t what he wants. What he wants is an eighteen-year-old idiot who forgot to get him today and who is, in all likelihood, having sex with the girl of the week instead of giving his little brother a ride. What he wants is the only thing he can’t have. Typical.

He should be ecstatic. He is reasonably sure he is the only one in his group of friends who got further than first base, yet the memory of Jess’ hands makes his stomach churn. He pouts, because there’s no one to see it, and flicks a spider off a wrought-iron gate, destroys its web. It lands on a rosebush and scurries away in fear. The sight makes him stop in shame. Why did he do that? He ruined the work of that tiny creature and cast it away from its safe home into the dangerous unknown just because he acted on a whim. That spider might never get back to its home now. It might get eaten or stomped on. Suddenly, he is awash with sympathy and guilt. How similar this is to his own situation… An invisible, larger than life force knocked him out of his good place and sent him into this turmoil where up turns down, longing is a sin and the lines are blurred between love and _love._ Will he ever make it out of the rosebush?

“Sorry.” He says into the mawkish flower-scent of the air and declares he is completely out of sorts, perhaps sick in the head. (Lovesick, his mind suggests, and he kicks a tree trunk in frustration.)

He arrives home exhausted and cranky. Surprise of surprises, Dean is there already, holding his head and talking on the phone with frantic eyes. Then he spots Sam and his anxiety dwindles away from his pale face. He lets out a breath. “God. He’s here.” He says to whoever’s on the other end. “Yeah. Looks okay. Must have walked. Sure.”

Huh, he must have been looking for Sam, working himself up over it. Serves him right. Maybe next time he will stop fucking around long enough to remember his brother exists. Sam gives him a glare full of contempt, bounds up to his room and slams the door so hard his window rattles. He has just dumped his stuff at the foot of his bed when the door is wrenched back open and Dean storms in, hackles rising.

“What the fuck was that?” He demands, as if he has _any right_ to speak.

Sam shrugs, plays passive-aggressive. “You weren’t there, so I walked. No biggie.”

“No big- Sammy, I was worried sick! We agreed you wait by the gates until I get there. I thought you got beaten or someone took you or -”

“Oh please.” Sam smiles and it’s pure venom, sinking into Dean’s body like snake-fangs. “Admit it, you only noticed in the past fifteen minutes. You don’t care at all.”

“What?” Dean recoils. “How can you say something like that?”

Oh, the audacity! “I can because you tossed me away! You pretend to be all high and mighty, saying you were worried, that I can count on you, but you can’t even keep a simple fucking schedule! I’ve waited forty minutes and you failed to show. Must be so hard to keep track of me between going through all the sluts of the city.”

It’s _so not fair._ He doesn't want to feel this way. He did his research, the Westermarck effect should have taken care of this, should have established that this is the only no-go, the absolute taboo, but even his biology is fucked up, can’t get it that Dean is his brother. He knows he is going overboard, but he has been bottling this up for what feels like his whole life. No stopping it now.

"Was it good? Screwing some cheap girl while I trekked my feet off trying to get home before dark? Did you go for round two?” Dean looks like his heart is being smashed into shards from Sam’s ugly, exploding jealousy. Even with the cracking fire between them, Sam sees him as something eternally beautiful that he wants to treasure and keep from strangers’ eyes, far away from their tainting touches.

“I can't live like this anymore.” Sam whispers and the fight goes out of his body. Leaves only the bare bones. “I don’t want to share you.”

“My truck died on me.” Dean says after a minute, voice hoarse. “It took fifty minutes to get it back on the road.” Sam swallows. He isn’t going to take any of it back, even if he made stupid assumptions. Nothing changes the fact that Dean sleeps around to get away from him, to avoid giving even the slightest indication that this attraction is mutual. “I scoured the entire neighbourhood around your school. Then I came home and called Bobby and I almost fainted, because I couldn’t _breathe,_ do you understand?”

Sam doesn’t look up from his toes. He feels like a kid, scolded without any actual punishment, pushed into the corner and gently told he should think his actions through and come back only after he did. He is going to cry like one too, but he has to wait until Dean is out of this room, because that would be the last straw in his humiliation, losing that bit of dignity.

Dean sighs. “This is my fault. I’m so sorry.” He is straining to form the words. “Whatever this sick, fucked-up thing is between us - it isn’t happening, alright?” Gentle, so very gentle, a breeze. Sam wants to collapse and never hear anything again. “I… Sam, I ain’t gonna lie, if… if you weren’t my brother, I’d…” He would do what? Would he let them be happy for once in their stupid lives? “But _you are,_ okay? And I want to keep it that way.”

“Okay.” Sam whispers.

“Just wait and see, you will grow out of it and we will forget this ever happened.” Dean promises quietly.

“What about you?” Sam croaks out, because he knows there’s nothing one-sided in this, they are in it together, as always.

Dean pauses. There’s a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Jody will be here in twenty minutes. Go take a shower, I’ll cook us dinner.” And just like that, he is out the door. Leaves Sam alone again and never answers the question. The silence is deafening.

 


	7. The weary one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to get worked out in Dean's mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit short and angsty, but I hope to make up for it in the next one, which is halfway done already. :)
> 
> From a little before Dean's 19th birthday to somewhere after his 20th

 

 _"The weary one, orphan_  
_of the masses, the self,_  
_the crushed one, the one made of concrete,_  
_the one without a country in crowded restaurants,_  
_he who wanted to go far away, always farther away,_  
_didn't know what to do there, whether he wanted_  
_or didn't want to leave or remain on the island."_

\- Neruda, The weary one

 

* * *

 

Termination. Sounds cold, doesn’t it? When you are on the brink of ending a meaningful relationship in your life, you don’t think of it as terminating a contract or an indoor insect invasion, do you? You think of saying goodbye or reaching closure, accomplishing something warmer and far less clinical than that term. Still, that is the accurate jargon for the process Castiel is going through with Dean, therefore he has to handle it as such. Termination, the mutual ending of services between a client and a therapist. It’s not a simple goodbye, and certainly not a see you later. In all probability they will never see each other again after their last sessions are over. Because, as much as the parties would like it, a therapist can’t be their patient’s actual friend, only their “professional” one. The unequal balance of power in such a dual relationship would have the potential to be harmful.

Countertransference. Another dry word. Developing positive or negative feelings toward a client. How could that even begin to cover how you feel about a boy you pulled out of his personal hell by jumping after him? Most of the time, Cas is glad to see his patients go, because it usually means they are faring better or at least moving on with their lives. But with Dean, he has been in trouble for a long, long time now. He doesn’t have an apposite explanation for it. He knows only that rediscovering a forgotten childhood together constructed a bond he is inadvertently taking home with himself at the end of each workday.

Forsaking their tie isn’t easy on Dean either. They went through this once before. Two years ago, after Dean declared he didn’t want to keep trying to put together the fragmented mass of memories they recovered from his pre-traumatic history. The termination wasn’t successful that time - Dean came back a year later, looking quite the worse for wear, with new issues in tow. In theory, they could keep working together despite his impending nineteenth birthday. However, Castiel isn’t qualified to treat adults in that capacity and it would benefit Dean more to find someone else.

It doesn’t help that they can’t make much progress regarding “the Sam-thing” either. Dean clams up as soon as Castiel prods at that can of worms and since he seems to have reached a conclusion about his other problem (what to do after graduation), there’s not much else to talk about. As it often is these months, Cas finds himself facing a mute and resistant partner, who wants to open up but is too afraid to do so. An oddly nostalgic picture.

“How are you?” He asks after five silent minutes of examining Dean’s muddy boots.

“Fine.” Dean sighs, rubs the circles under his eyes. “Tired.”

Castiel sends him a soft smile, but it goes unnoticed. “What about your brother?”

There’s only the shortest of pauses before Dean fakes a cheery answer. “He’s doing well. So freakin’ smart, Cas. I swear he could graduate now if he wanted and he’s just a freshman. Still has that girlfriend of his. Such a poster couple.” He smiles without humor. “He’s happy.”

Let’s dig deeper, then. “Have you told him about your plans?”

He has been concocting them ever since last May. Going on a road trip, leaving Sam behind. Giving him an out of the unhealthy obsession he has for Dean. It’s not the best course of action and neither is it the wisest. But once his mind was set, Cas couldn’t talk him out of it, and in the clinical sense, it’s not an unfounded idea. Separation, if maintained long enough, could help with limerence and Castiel has a strong suspicion that Sam has limerent feelings that have branched off his childish hero-worship. Dean’s attraction, on the other hand, is a twisted manifestation of anxiety - excessive need for the attachment figure’s closeness without sexual intent. Kissing, even though Dean believes otherwise, does not necessarily  involve more than that platonic want. To treat Dean’s problem well and without pain, Dean should be willing to do the separation step by step, not jumping right in with his usual all-or-nothing attitude. Alas, Castiel is not a magician. He won’t be the one to convince him.

As expected, Dean shakes his head. “It’s not exactly a joyride. I don’t wanna upset him.”

“It’ll be worse if you leave it to the last minute.”

“I know, just…” Dean shrugs and looks away, swallowing his lips. The seconds tick by and he takes in deep breath after deep breath until there are tears welling up in his eyes and spilling over his eyelashes in two perfect lines. His shoulders start shaking in suppressed trembles, his control visibly slipping away and taking Castiel’s right along with it. In general, he shouldn’t touch his patients besides handshakes or the taps during hypnosis. But seeing Dean so distraught affects him in a way he can’t ignore, countertransference issues notwithstanding.

“Oh Dean…” He sighs, sits next to him on the couch and strokes a comforting hand over his shoulders. “You don't have to do it.”

“It's for the best.” Dean blinks into the harsh light of the overhead lamp to ward off his tears. “You know how I… you know I have to. Just ‘cause you love someone doesn’t mean you should stick around and screw up their life.”*

Castiel’s heart does an extrasystole. “Dean, do you trust me when I say there are other ways to handle this?” Another shake of the head. “Please do. You aren’t sick. You aren’t the first person I’ve met who felt a similar attraction.”

Dean lets out a disbelieving chuckle. “So it’s completely normal then that I want to kiss my own brother?”

“No.” Cas gives him a firm look. “But it doesn’t make you a bad person and it’s not something you can’t change.” He squeezes Dean’s shoulder. “I can help you find an adult psychologist or you could attend the psychodrama group I’ve told you about.”

For the first time since the beginning of this session, Cas sees a flash of green directed at him. “Your brother’s group?”

“Yes. Gabriel is very apt in treating familial problems.”

“You’re a bunch of geniuses, aren’t you?” Dean’s eyes start swimming again, despite his genuine smile.

“We try our best.” Cas smiles back and when Dean raises his arms to initiate a tentative hug, he recites the principles of beneficence and nonmaleficence and lets it happen. He can’t be Dean’s friend when his therapy ends, but damn if he isn’t going to be one until it goes on.

 

* * *

 

Sam can’t believe this is happening. He can’t believe Dean has waited until the very last day to tell him that he is going away. For an _indeterminate period of time._ Fucking coward. Sam’s not an idiot, he can put two and two together. Dean is leaving, because his little brother is a freak of nature and he does not bear the sight of him anymore. It’s fine. All fine, sure. It’s not like he’s gonna _die._ No, he will just… shrivel away a little, stop breathing, maybe? Honestly. How _the fuck_ is he supposed to go on now that the only person who stuck by his side through all the shit life has thrown his way is leaving too? How is he gonna get up with _this deep_ an ache in his chest?

“Sammy, darling. Don’t you want to come eat with us?” Jody coaxes, whispering in his ear and carding her fingers through his hair. It’s all fine. Sam has spent the whole day (the last one, the very last) curled up in his bed, staring at the wall and clutching his ugly, old toy to his chest. Zach understands, he is sure. He doesn’t want to eat. He doesn’t want to want. He doesn’t even care that Jody called him by that (stupid, stupid, precious) nickname. “I made your favourite.”

It has been going so well for a while after their fight last year. Sam threw himself headfirst into his relationship with Jess, then high school came along, and soccer and lacrosse and Math Club, and it seemed like they were going to survive Sam’s infatuation like everything else before. He got a working phone (finally) and a customary awkward birds-and-bees talk from Bobby, met Jessica’s parents, introduced Jody as his Mom and did not feel the slightest bit weird about it at all. Then Dean goes and pulls something like this shit. _“I want to see what I’m good for in the real world.”_ Bullshit. _“Everyone takes a gap year, why can’t I?”_ Utter crap. Dean does not want to go to uni at all. He is leaving and he isn’t going to come back again.

The worst thing is that Sam truly thought that they were over it. Dean started working at Bobby’s garage and horsed around with him like they did when there was no tension behind too-long looks or straying touches. That twinge of want was barely there at all. Sam was happy, and now it’s shot to shit. They even found the remains of a crashed Chevy Impala in the salvage yard and put it back together - well, Sam did the finding, Dean the repair - and now the bastard is leaving in that beautiful, sleek black car they have dreamt of for an eternity of moving around.

“You have to eat something.” Jody insists, rubbing the back of his neck. Sam rarely ever lets anyone touch him there, that’s the point where Alastair used to grab him when he wanted to threaten his brother. But it feels good now, and he trusts Jody almost as much as he imagines he would trust his biological Mom.

“I’m not hungry.” He croaks out and curls up tighter. “My head hurts.” It does not. He just wants to be alone.

“Alright, sweetheart.” Jody sighs and leans down to kiss his temple before standing up. “I’ll bring you a painkiller.”

“Thank you.”

He waits until her footsteps retreat, then fishes his earbuds out of his bedside table, plugs them into his phone and pretends he is listening to music, so that he doesn’t have to talk to anyone who comes up next. It’s not a long wait until he hears his bedroom door creak and his mattress dips under a much heavier body than before.

“Hey, kiddo.” Dean starts, voice laced with remorse already. “I’ve brought your medicine.”

Sam doesn’t answer. He keeps his eyes resolutely closed and wills himself not to flinch when Dean places the cup of water and the pill on the bedside table and lies down behind him. His heart seems to be plenty interested in this turn of events, because it tries to climb up Sam’s throat, but he swallows it back down along with treacherous saltwater that attempts to spill out of his body. Dean doesn’t deserve to see that. He doesn’t deserve anything, not one drop.

“I know you are angry.” Dean whispers and pulls one of his earbuds away. He doesn’t comment on the lack of music - he most likely knew it anyway. “But I promise I’ll call and write and send you postcards, anything you want. You’ll barely notice it and I’ll be back again, harassing you while you’re trying to do your homework.”

Sam can’t stifle a wavering smile and gingerly, he turns around until they are face to face. “I want pictures of the most ridiculous things you can find.”

Dean grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Done. Anything else, your highness?”

Sam shakes his head, because no news, what he wants is what he can’t have and he is tired of reaching for it in vain. He closes his eyes and curses his allergy, because it blocks his airways and it ruins what might be the last time for a while that he gets to smell his brother. He burrows close enough to get a whiff that even his stuffed nose processes and tries to let go. Dean roots around and comes up with Sam’s phone, unlocks it and finds Sam’s playlists. Maybe it’s instinct, or maybe it’s a secret mind-reading talent he hasn’t fessed up about, but he chooses the one with the songs Sam used to listen to when they first started sleeping apart. The list of light guitar hits and calming tunes that always helped him drift off when the distance was too much, and despite himself, despite how much he fights, Sam falls asleep within minutes to Dean’s hand on his back and his scent clouding his mind.

He wakes up to an empty bed and a silent house that almost makes him hurl the moment his brain catches up. He takes a pained breath and rushes into Dean’s room (empty, so empty), throws himself into the bed and imagines it’s not cold sheets around him, but warm limbs with the same smell. He watches the clean spot in the dust on the nightstand where their photo used to be and prays that his parents won’t make him go to school because he isn’t sure he can walk today.

 

* * *

 

 

Cassie always thought of herself as a wonderer. She’s the type of girl who asks questions, even if she does not voice them to every person she encounters. That’s why she thought journalism would be a fitting major - she is curious, confident and has a knack for literacy. When she met Dean Winchester, in his black muscle car and disarming smile, her limbs tingled with the excitement of adventure. She knew he wasn’t a keeper. He fell into bed easily and fell out of it just as fast, leaving women behind with all but a waft of the spicy tea they wanted to drink. Cassie - well, she took it as a challenge. She tricked him into thinking he was wooing her when it was the other way around, distracted him with the sway of her hips until it ended in the most intense affair she has ever had in her young life. They fucked and kissed and devoured each other till it felt like there were hardly any secrets left that their bodies didn’t give away. But she hasn’t seen his back. In their two months of a heatwave, not once. And now, with him on the edge of sleep next to her, she begins wondering again.

How many stories do our bodies hold? Do they remember every touch, every movement, every stroke of the sun? Do these white lines her nails draw around the peak of a nipple remain there, hidden only to human eyes? If she could see better, read bare skin and muscles better, would she know an entire life? Could she explore it like a book?

“What are you thinkin' about?” Dean’s chest rumbles. A drop of sweat cascades into his belly button. Her fingertips follow and settle in the valley of his stomach, over millions of other touches, a new line in his book.

“Your body.” Cassie presses the indent of her lips into his shoulder.

He chuckles. “Yeah? What about it?”

Muscles tighten, grooves sink deeper, pelvis rolls up. Cassie lets her hand slide lower, but not to the place he wants her to cover with invisible imprints. “How did you get this?”

“Fought a dragon, once.” Dean smirks and shifts, the stretched scar tissue on his hip shying away from her. It does look like a burn. He moves on top of her, leaves entire pages on her inner thighs, on her neck, between her breasts, but she wants to stop writing and start reading the story for once. She wants to know him for more than just the marks sex paints on his skin.

“Fire-jumping?” She prods, pushing him away. “Drunken dare?”

Dean sighs and leaves the grip of her legs again, lies back beside her. “It’s just a tiny spot. Could have gotten it anywhere.”

“Cigarette burn? No, it’s not round enough…”

“Okay, okay. I’ll tell you, but you have to promise you’ll keep my secret.” She nods, eyes wide. Will he open up? Is it going to be this easy? Oblivious to her thoughts, he lowers his voice in exaggerated secrecy. “I'm a superhero by night.”

Her sigh of disappointment ruffles the ends of his short hair. “You always do that.”

“What?” He frowns.

“Whenever we get close, anywhere in the neighbourhood of emotional vulnerability, you back off. Or make some joke. Or find any way to shut the door on me.”**

There’s a seemingly endless silence after that. She lies back and plays him like a fiddle, pretends to be over it and finding him boring for his reticence. He appears baffled by that - he must have expected insistence or straight up fawning over his mystery. He goes for a kiss and she lets him, but doesn’t reciprocate and it’s visible how he begins giving up, because he wants to win her over _that much._

“You know that I was adopted.” He starts, faltering as if he has never told this story before. She nods. “My parents - my biological parents died in a house fire when I was eight. So, uh, I guess I got it there. I don't know how.”

She raises her eyebrows. “You don’t?”

He looks like a fish out of water, sweating and rubbing his neck. “My old memories are all scrambled up. I sort of remember holding something - my brother, maybe - and looking up at the fire, but… It feels like fishing in the dark. I don't even realise there’s something on the hook. Just…” He flaps a hand around. “absolute darkness.”

She arrives to a dawning realisation. “You have amnesia.”

Dean hums in affirmation. “Told you, Cassie. I’m really messed up.” He closes his eyes and drops back into the pillows. “Now let’s sleep or go back to what we are actually good at.”

That makes her smile. “Do you always go for sex when you are insecure?”

“I’m not insecure.” He glares and finally, he has something to prove.

She goes for it without hesitation. “Can I see your back then?”

“You won’t stop nagging me, will you?” Dean shakes his head, looking annoyed. “You heard my little sob story. Isn’t that enough?”

“I’m going to be a journalist, Dean. I have to be able to reach the bottom.”

He gives her a long look, then sets his jaw, scowling. “Yeah, well. That is _rock bottom,_ Cassie.” He warns, then turns over and buries his face in the crook of his arm.

For a second, she has flashes of the possibilities she made up in her mind ever since she touched him there, tattoo job gone wrong, band fighting, car accident and yes, even fire, but she didn’t think of thin lines that she can’t imagine as anything else but signs of abuse. There's a cigarette burn or two on his right flank, but the majority of them are stripes, some barely visible, one raised and running down from his shoulder blade to his buttock. That must have been a knife. It takes severe force or truly dreadful tools to leave a person with marks like these. She’s unsure of what to say. Does he expect a sorry? Not, if she knows him right. What about anger? She has never thought she possessed motherly instincts, but they must have been dormant only, because at the moment, she could rip the culprits into shreds. But he must have seen that reaction plenty of times before. Maybe, all he needs is a bit of casual sympathy, for her to treat those scars as if they weren’t so far out of the normal range of experience - because for him, they are not.

“Not gonna ask?” He breaks the silence, words muffled.

“No.” She shakes her head and leans over to kiss some of those marks, then wraps her arms around his stomach and rests her head between his shoulder blades. She’s curious, but she doubts that would prompt Dean to open up. He shudders.

“My… my father and one of my fosters… they...” His nervous laugh rumbles in his chest. “This is uh, a first for me.”

“You don't have to tell me.”

“I kinda want to now.”

She smiles into his skin. “Okay.”

“They were always sort of violent. Kicking up chairs, breaking glasses, the usual stuff. A few slaps to us here and there. Nothing too terrible. Then for one reason or another, they went after my brother. It’s always easier to go for the weaker, the little one, you know? I had to step in.” He says it with such terrifying conviction that Cassie shivers. How much do you have to love someone to take all this? Would everyone do this for their sibling? Being an only child, it’s very hard to imagine. “They used belts and straps. Mostly. And… sometimes other stuff. Alastair got creative after a while. Most of the marks are from him. He cut away my clothes once, ‘cause I refused to take them off. That's the, uh, the long one.”

She slides off his back and worms her way under his folded arm until she is breathing in the same air, resting on the same pillow. “Don't be ashamed of them.”

“I'm not. Just don't wanna explain it over and over again. People wouldn’t understand that I asked for it.”

“Being forced into an impossible choice isn't asking.”

“My therapist used to say the same thing.” Dean smiles listlessly. “That's just the way it is. Nobody hurts my brother while I’m still breathing on my own.”

“You’re a good brother.” She murmurs, trying to cheer him up.

Dean just purses his lips and drops his arm to her bare waist, eyes distant. “I left him behind in Sioux Falls.”

“Why don’t you go back and visit him?” He doesn’t answer and she can sense that this thing called openness tires him out, so she just kisses his brow and settles in for sleeping. “I know you have secrets. Everyone does. But if you are going to leave in a week or two anyway, why not tell them?”

“Maybe I don’t want to leave.” He replies. Half an hour before, that would have made her heart speed up. But now she sees the thing she couldn’t figure out before, what made Dean so irresistible to all the girls in town - the longing he radiates. They wanted to be the one to fill that place for him, but never realised it’s already filled, somewhere far away.

“I know you will.” She tells him gently. “There’s something else out there, calling for you.”

“I could do it. I could stay if you asked me to.”

“I won’t. You either do or don’t, it’s your choice. I won’t put pressure on either. But you know, Dean...” She closes her eyes and tangles their fingers together. “Usually, things get worked out. When you really want them to.”**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * quote from 6.21 "Let It Bleed"  
> ** quotes from 1.13 "Route 666"


	8. Touch talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a hammock and a pool and a Rambo marathon that nobody cares about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little break from the angst fest. I'm anxious to see what you think of this very eventful chapter.

 

 

 _"While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies  
_ _I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth."_

\- Neruda, Every day you play

 

 

* * *

 

Jess breaks up with him holding hands in the bedroom where they lost their virginity together. It’s the summer after he turns seventeen and her hair is falling into her eyes. She says Sam isn't invested in it as much as she is, that she can’t waste her love on someone whose heart is elsewhere. Sam nods, tucks her wayward locks behind her ear, _sorry I can’t give you hope,_ and drives around town for two hours just to reach some pretence of order in his mind. It’s kind of futile.

His heart comes home six weeks later, on a sweltering afternoon in July. There’s nothing special about it, no fanfare or anything - he’s just there one day when Sam ventures out into the backyard. They only have a patch of green grass that hasn't dried out yet. It's between a pair of tall lindens that have an amazing smell when they blossom in the middle of June. Freshly heartbroken and feeling very emo after Jess, Sam set up a hammock between those trees to brood and nap in pleasant solitude. Naturally, that's where Dean lounges at, skipping greetings and unpacking, and just going back to occupying Sam’s space as if it was his own.

They haven’t seen each other in a year, not even for Christmas, and Sam has to pinch himself in disbelief. What if Dean’s a mirage, a trick of the light? What if he is a dream? But he doesn’t vanish as Sam walks closer, stays just as solid as he looked from afar. His cheeks are a little rounder, expression brighter, the haunted restlessness gone, and Sam knows just from looking at him that they have a tabula rasa. A blank slate to start figuring out their relationship again. He’s sporting a light stubble and his bare feet hang over the edge. Sam has the absurd urge to grab one and tickle its sole.

“That’s mine.” He says when it’s apparent that Dean is content to maintain his lazy indifference.

“Big enough for two.” Dean’s eyes remain closed, but a pleased smile stretches over his face. He waves a hand beside his hip. “Come here.”

Sam does not. He is not a little kid who will fall into his stupid brother’s arms when he deigns him worthy of his presence. No, if Dean wants to touch him or engage him in conversation or whatever, he damn well has to work for it like any other human being.

“Okay, then.” Dean grins and swings himself out of the thing with the sort of grace Sam’s gangly body lacks at the moment. His eyes flick up to Sam’s figure mid-step and he comes to a stuttering halt. His bewilderment looks comical on his handsome features. “Woah. You been snackin’ on protein bars, Sasquatch?”

Sam can't help it, he cracks up. “Shut up.”

Dean gives him a thorough once-over. “Seriously, you got all this from salad and shit?”

Smug satisfaction washes over Sam’s mind. Yes, he had a growth spurt. He went from short and cute to ridiculously tall and thin in the course of a few months and now he’s over 6’2 and this might not be the end of it. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t have to look up to catch Dean’s eyes. Come to think of it, he’s looking a tiny bit _down_ at the moment. “Wishing you didn’t throw out all your pickles, huh?”

“Hell yeah.” Dean gestures at him, at a loss for words. “Look at ya.”

They stare at each other in the warm breeze, the leaves whooshing above. Dean clears his throat. It's getting awkward and Sam wonders if it'd be bad form to leave him to suffer the consequences of his actions alone. After all, if he hadn't left, they wouldn't have any problem acting around each other. Dean’s gaze is still fixed on him, watching for signs of anger or resentment probably, and Sam starts to sweat under his scrutiny. There's a mosquito bite on his forearm and he scratches at it, anything to distract him from the desire to either punch his brother in the face or check if he feels any different wrapped up in Sam’s arms.

Dean makes an abrupt, dissatisfied noise and grabs Sam’s wrist, tutting and slapping his fingers away from the itch. Sam barely has time to process what's happening before Dean digs his blunt nail into the bite and makes a cross in it.

“Dean!” He whines. He fucking hates that. It hurts and stings like hell. Why can’t he just scratch it? It's _his_ fucking bite.

Dean smirks. “Better now, isn’t it?”

His hand moves up to Sam's shoulder and squeezes. Then he hesitates, shifting from foot to foot, and that's something Sam can’t take. Dean should never have to hesitate to hug him. He lurches forward and envelopes him in the tightest embrace he can manage, his pent-up tension rushing out of him at once.

“What?” Dean grunts, trying to cover how his body says _I missed you too._

Sam’s heart swells and he laughs, holding on tighter. “Nothing. It's good to have you back.”

 

* * *

 

Working at a swimming pool’s snack bar isn't the most mentally challenging jobs Sam could have found and the stench of chlorine clings so hard to the place that he tastes it in the back of his mouth. But it’s easy and provides him with an opportunity to check out the finest of the local girls clad in little more than scraps. Those tiny bikinis do nothing to disguise their bodies and for the hormonal height Sam has been riding lately, that's like staring into heaven through its golden gates. Dean seems to have realised this pro as well and grabs every chance to “visit” him and flirt. As he leans across the counter, winking at some busty redhead who ordered a PJ sandwich and onion rings (Sam’s gonna be sick), a waft of his sunscreen scent hits Sam’s nose and stirs his wistfulness. It’s such a Dean-smell in his mind. His own tan skin never really called for creams, but Dean needs to be lathered in them to avoid the dreaded lobster-look. He has a smudge of it on his temple right now. Is it normal that Sam finds that cute?

There’s a peach in his hand that he keeps rolling between his fingers instead of biting its lush curve. It’s distracting. Sam seems to have all his nerve cells honed in on that fruit until someone gives his forearm a light tap. “Hey Sam.”

He startles, then relaxes when he spots the guy who approached the stand. “Mick! Good to see you again.”

They met last week during a similar lull in customers. It turned out that Mick knew a thing or two about law courses in the States and they struck up a conversation about them that lasted for an hour. Since then, Mick came to the pool every single day, even though he doesn't look like the type who can't survive the summer dry. He is a tiny bit fidgety if he only wears a swimsuit and his body - while not bad at all - isn't the finely sculpted bronze god thing most of the regulars prowl around with. And he keeps wandering back to the snack bar. Sam has an inkling it’s not the food he's salivating for and it looks like Dean has arrived to the same conclusion, because he abandons his potential conquest and shoulders him aside.

“Can I help you?” He glares with open hostility and juts out his chin.

Sam rolls his eyes. “You don’t work here. Go eat your peach.” He wrestles Dean back and flashes Mick an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, my brother’s an idiot.”

Mick rubs his five o'clock shadow. “Is he always that…”

“Rude?” Sam offers and kicks out when Dean protests behind him. “Well, you don't have boobs. That makes you either a sidekick or an enemy.”

“I see.” Mick laughs and leans closer so that his next words are only for Sam’s ears. “What about you?”

Sam furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”

“Do you mind that I don’t have boobs?” Mick chews on his bottom lip, mesmerizing eyes fixed on Sam’s.

And there it is. Sam’s far from an expert on these matters and he wasn't that self-assured to believe he caught an older man's eyes, but he sort of hoped he read the signs right. The air turns heavy between them as they lean even closer over the sticky countertop. Under Mick’s intense look, Sam finds himself getting half-hard. He knows it’s not the body in general that’s turning him on. Sure, he can appreciate it aesthetically, but he only ever felt attraction for other boys when there was something more there, some emotional or intellectual allure. He’d say he’s a 1 on the Kinsey scale, but this is the first time he could actually go through with it and test that theory.

“I don't mind at all.” He replies and mirrors Mick’s answering smile.

“I will be honest with you, Sam.” Mick starts after a deep breath. “I like you. And I'd like to get to know you better.”

He drops his hand on top of Sam’s. “Will you go out with me? On, uh, on a date?”

Sam’s stomach flutters and he lets his slim fingers play with Mick’s thicker ones. He thinks about Dean’s inevitable disapproval, but... Whatever. Sam is single. He is allowed to act as coquettish as he wants. “Yes.”

“Great.” Mick lets out a short laugh. “What do you say to a movie? On Friday, maybe?”

“Sounds fine.”

“Great.” Mick repeats, eyes bright. “I'll go check what’s playing.” He stretches to his tiptoes and gives Sam a little peck on the cheek. “Be right back.”

Sam stares after him, slightly creeped out. That kiss was way too smarmy for his taste. Or is that just how confident gay men act around each other? And by the way, if you plan to ask someone out, you research the goddamn options beforehand, don’t you? That was just… weird. Still, he has a date. With a guy, nonetheless, and that’s so thrilling he could sing along to the eighties pop hits blaring from the speakers around the stand.

Dean doesn't share the sentiment. “Who’s that guy?”

“His name is Mick. We met here the other day.” Even though he has yet to tell his brother, Sam has been considering law school for a while now. He is smart enough and the way he grew up, he has been trained to fight tooth and nail for the things he wanted. That tenacity would come in handy in a courtroom.

“I don't like him.”

“Too bad, ‘cause I do.” Sam smiles to himself and rearranges the box of suckers on the counter. “He’s very smart.”

Dean scowls. “Too old.”

“He's only twenty-five.” Sam’s voice is chirpy from mirth. Dean mutters something about perverts and jailbait little shits with a frown that amuses him to no end. It's quite entertaining to watch his brother fume, so he decides to add more fuel to the fire. “He asked me out to a movie, you know.”

Dean’s fingers curl up into a fist. “You ain't going.”

“I’m capable of making my own decisions, Dean. You can't just waltz in and order me around. When he comes back, I’m gonna give him my number.”

Dean growls. “Can’t come back if I break his legs.”

“Why are you so hellbent on sabotaging my romantic life?”

“I'm not. But I won't let anyone take advantage of you.”

That's ridiculous and sweet in a sort of overbearing way. Sam is neither small nor innocent anymore. He’s almost an adult. Not exactly easy to be taken advantage of, even if his face is boyish and smooth (much to his chagrin).

“I really want to go out.” Not true, but if Dean goes into control-freak mode, he feels entitled to whine.

“If I take you myself, will you stop talking to that asshole?”

“He's not an asshole.” Unlike someone else...

“Will you?” Dean grips his upper arm. He looks dead serious and… God, does that mean he would take Sam on an unofficial date? That would be a dream come true.

He's not about to give his eagerness away, though. “No promises.” He says with a smile, then begins bracing himself for the hurt look on poor Mick’s face.

Dean seems satisfied with that answer. He releases Sam’s arm and bites into his peach at last, munches on its flesh with voracious hunger, as if it was Mick’s jugular. The juice drips down his chin, messy as he always is, and Sam’s stomach somersaults from how badly he wants to lick it off. His summer job shapes up to be quite awesome.

 

* * *

 

Dean’s obviously not taking their date as a date. He is in the same clothes he wore in the morning, makes a joke about Sam’s hair and gets confused by the smell of cologne when Sam sits in his car. It’s okay. Sam has been counting on that and he’s not disappointed in the slightest, but nothing could have prepared him for the monstrosity that _The Creature 2: Evil Fun_ is. He’s surprised this shit even made it to theaters. There are decaying bodies and excessive bloodshed in it with a villain that’s half zombie, half cannibalistic clown. Also, the movie is kinda tit-heavy, and by that Sam means none of the actresses are keen on wearing bras. Some of them might have been porn stars. It’s tacky and the type of bad that makes Dean chortle - but something about the lunatic killer clown has Sam’s insides shrinking in fear. Every single time that thing graces the screen, he flinches and gasps. There’s nothing he can do about it. He just wants to get out of here _now._ He's not even fighting for the second half of his own popcorn anymore, lets Dean gobble that up too. Why didn’t they go for the new X-men? 

“Did you see that?” Dean guffaws and earns himself an outraged hiss from the bunch of nerds sitting in the row behind them. Why the hell are they so close? There’s no one else in here, they could have sat anywhere. Sam turns his probably ashen face to look at his brother. Gets a popcorn-filled smile in return. His stomach does a weak flutter, part smitten, part ready to puke. The clown aka The Creature grins at the camera again. Sam carves his nails into the armrests. Just as he’s starting to think Dean is too engrossed in the film to pay attention to him, a heavy hand lands on the top of his head and smooths down to the back of his neck. It finds a home there despite the uncomfortable angle and Sam’s clammy skin.

The touch doesn't make everything magically better, but it gives Sam something else to concentrate on. He closes his eyes and lets it soothe him until the disturbing sounds of the cackling clown dissolve into background noise. Dean’s thumb rubs circles behind his ear, wanders under his earlobe. That’s where Jess used to… Shit. Sam can’t help the U-turn his mind takes to lead him down the public boner lane. The arousal his fear pumped through his veins gets the memo lightning fast and within seconds, Sam finds himself hard as steel only inches away from Dean’s sprawling body. Torture.

“Hey, wanna get out of here?” Dean whispers into his ear, nose brushing Sam’s temple, and Sam snaps his eyes open, alarmed. He couldn’t have meant that as it sounded, right? “You look sick, Sammy.”

Good, he’s oblivious. Which means there’s still a sliver of a chance to get away with this hard-on. Judged by Sam’s average stamina nowadays, it would take five minutes to get rid of it in the restroom and about the same for it to spring back up again. But maybe, if he went for seconds -

“You know what, this movie sucks. Let’s get burgers.” Dean cuts in with his habitual split-second decision making and ushers him to stand.

Sam panics, trying to angle his hips away from his brother’s. “No, no, no. We should stay.” The tent in his pants is too big to cover with his hoodie, he can’t leave like this. As soon as they step into the light, Dean’s gonna spot it and make fun of him for it the rest of the month. “You like it.”

“Nah.” Dean denies it with a wave, even though it’s blatantly obvious he does. His gaze keeps flicking back to the gore on screen, lips twitching up. The last thing Sam wants is ruining his fun.

“You don’t need to -”

“Hey, faggots!” One of the uglier nerds calls out, throwing popcorn at them. “Sit the fuck down or leave.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. His posture turns threatening right away. “You talking to me, Jabba?”

It’s a greasy-haired guy who answers instead of his friend. “Yeah. Go suck your boyfriend’s dick elsewhere. Fucking homos.”

Given their physiques and Dean’s shady past, Sam suspects they could beat this group into a whimpering pulp without breaking a sweat. But as much as he wants to shove their slurs back down their throats, this is the first time that he and Dean have been mistaken for a couple and it does complicated things with Sam’s brain. He doesn’t want to cool his ass in a holding cell while sorting them out, so he drags Dean down the stairs (thank God he’s big enough to restrain him now) and pushes him out the doors. Unsurprisingly, he’s not hard anymore.

On their way to the car, Dean is ranting about people who should be taught a lesson, but Sam blocks him out and marvels over what the hell happened. He liked to be called Dean’s boyfriend. It made him proud, because it implied he was the one who took care of Dean, that he was the person who had such a special relationship with him. And the pulse of attraction he felt that moment had nothing to do with adoration or looking up to his brother. He loved the equality of it. Not _little brother_ or _Sammy,_ no, in the eyes of those bastards, he was Dean’s boyfriend. His partner. It’s a revelation. Although he knew that his old feelings have never disappeared completely, he didn’t realise they changed  and evolved since Dean came back into… whatever this is. Something driven less by selfish need and more by a desire to share.

Dean gets them burgers and coke at the closest drive thru and takes them to a deserted Walmart parking lot which looks like prime hunting ground for psychos. They sit on the Impala’s hood and eat in companionable silence by the flickering street light. There’s an upended garbage can ten feet away. It’s as though Dean puts a special effort into being the least romantic (not)date ever. And yet, Sam finds himself watching his content face as he chews his way through three burgers and a chocolate chip cookie. He is crass and shameless and so, so lovely. There are beads of perspiration on his forehead that glisten in the orange glow as he leans back and throws an arm around Sam’s shoulders.

“Okay?” He asks, frowning at a battered pigeon that goes to sit on the lamp post next to the car.

Sam grins. God help that bird if it puts a smear on Baby. “Yeah.”

Dean smiles back, mock-punches Sam’s chin and goes to stand. “Let’s roll.”

Sam clears his throat and halts him with a hand on his wrist. If he wants to tell him… this is as good a time as any. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Their knees rub together. Sam watches the point of that contact and thinks, this is Dean’s way of saying _you can tell me anything._ It’s funny, how comforting such a small gesture could be. “I want to go to Stanford. After graduation.”

“Good choice, Sammy.” He says softly.

He doesn’t get it. They have only just got each other back, Sam can’t toss that out the window, can he? Even for the school of his dreams. Even for the _life_ of his dreams. “But it’s in California. Two thousand miles away. Five hours by plane, twenty-seven by car, five hundred -”

“I don’t think anyone would walk that far, smartass.” Dean quips and knocks their legs together again. “We’ll just take my Baby.” He pats the metal they’re sitting on. “I might even let you drive.”

Sam’s heart all but stops. “We?”

“Yeah. Or you think they don’t need mechanics for all those fancy cars over there?”

“You’d come with me?

“Hell yeah. College chicks and beaches? Count me in.”

Sam could kiss him for those three words. He would risk doing it too if he didn’t think that would screw this fragile promise all up. He settles for a bump of shoulders and a smile so wide it hurts his cheeks. Dean answers with his own dorky one. The pigeon above them coos. It’s beginning to look like a prelude to a chick-flick moment when something collides with the car’s spotless windshield and leaves a large blotch of dirty whiteness on the glass. Oh God, it _did_ poop on Dean’s treasure. As his brother goes livid and runs around in search of rocks to throw, the smile stays bright and gleeful on Sam’s face. Dean calls him a bitch. Sam laughs and starts rooting for the bird, just to see the ridiculous look on Dean’s face a tiny bit longer. If this isn't love, he doesn't know what is.

 

* * *

 

In October, Sam hooks up with a girl called Amy, who keeps sitting at his table in the school library. In the stress and pressure of senior year they have a good time finding relief in each other’s bodies. She gets him, physically and emotionally too. They could make it official, but she's pining for the lacrosse captain and Sam would be lying if he said he didn't want something else all along, so they split after a few weeks and vow never to mention it again.

In the meantime, his feelings for Dean blossom and grow into a forest of what ifs. What if he wants Sam too? What if they do it and get caught? What if they don’t? His thoughts keep running down that path. Could he build a life of deception and sin with his own brother? If so, there would be no kickass career or marriage, just lies atop lies. Could he do that? And what if they get together, then split up? So many questions. The ache of this limbo state is both easier and harder this time around. Easier to put aside than his old infatuation had been. There's nothing obsessive about it, it doesn't occupy every waking hour. When it _does_ hit him, though… Suffice to say it feels like being carved out with a spoon.

By the time Christmas is on their doorstep, he feels ready to confess and be done with it for good. He knows that Dean would take care of him either way. It doesn't help his mood that he is in the middle of another growth spurt - hopefully the last - and it hurts like hell. His shins are on fire and his favourite trousers have stopped covering his ankles. Dean has been joking about wearing Sam’s outgrown clothes, but it’s getting less and less funny by the day.

On top of that, he gets ravenous at the oddest times, it even wakes him up on occasion. Christmas Eve or not, tonight is no exception. Sam's eyes snap open two minutes before midnight and his growling stomach informs him that the leftover turkey should not see daylight again. It's a good thing their fridge is always well stocked - he’s so hungry he would chuck down raw eggs with flour. For the thousandth time, he thanks all deities for sending Jody their way. Before the adoption, their Christmases have been particularly gloomy affairs. It was supposed to be a week for families and gifts, but the handful of times they actually received some they contained second-hand clothing or cheap sweets. Holiday feasts consisted of sausage or meatloaf. Eating an actual turkey on Christmas Eve? It will never stop being amazing.

He has a vivid memory of the first December they spent here, in Sioux Falls. They had been gearing up to another let down regarding the presents, but when they tramped down the stairs on Christmas Day, there was a bunch of neatly packed boxes under the tree with their names written on them. Not one, not two, but a whole bunch of presents. Sam had been euphoric, jumping for joy. Dean on the other hand… He looked like he saw a ghost. And next thing Sam knew, he was running back to their rooms and throwing up in the closest bathroom. He remembers being completely dumbfounded by that reaction. He watched Jody peel Dean’s lethargic body away from the toilet and cradle him on the cold floor, and listened to Dean’s weak voice as he mumbled something about bad Christmas experiences, but he didn’t understand it. Seeing his brother that out of sorts was incomprehensible.

So yeah, Christmas is always a stressful time for Dean. Not quite as much as before, but it’s rough enough that Sam isn’t surprised to bump into him on his way back from his midnight snack. He is slouching on the couch in the living room, watching a muted TV with zoned out eyes. He has some sort of grey robe on and _slippers,_ which may just be the most grotesque thing Sam has seen this year. He’ll never get tired of discovering the odd habits Dean developed while he was away on his “road trip”.

“Feeling old, grandpa?” Sam teases and flops down right next to him.

Dean gives him a lopsided smile. “Careful there. You may be all grown up, but I can still whoop your ass.”

Sam would like to see him try. He’s too sleepy to voice that thought, though, so he falls silent instead and doesn’t speak up again until the show ends and Dean changes the channel. He’s pretty comfortable with Dean’s arm pressed flush against his side, but a half-naked Stallone performing self-surgery is not something he’s gonna ignore. “I’m not watching the Rambo trilogy again.”

“C’mon, that’s a classic!”

“Dude. We’ve seen it, like, a million times before.”

“Still a classic.”

He reaches for the device in Dean’s hand, but it’s snatched away before his fingers make contact. Sam purses his lips. “Gimme the remote.”

Dean grins back. The pink tip of his tongue pokes out between his teeth. “No.”

Sam makes a grab for it again. Dean pushes him on the center of his chest. He pushes back. “Dean!”

“No.”

Disaster is inevitable at this point. They start shoving and pulling at each other, scuffling like little brats until Dean loses his balance and topples to the ground, yanking Sam right after himself. He ends up between Dean’s legs, headlocked against Dean’s chest. He struggles for a second, then gives up and tries to catch his breath. Damn, he lost again. The hold around his neck is tight as a vice, no getting out of it. He squirms and inhales as much air as he can. It smells like pine, fudge and detergent, homey-sweet. Dean’s chest rises and falls in metronomic precision, heart beating a fast-paced _dum dum dum_ under Sam’s ear. With a bit of difficulty, he turns his face into Dean’s soft woolen robe and squeezes his waist.

“Uncle?” Dean chuckles.

“Screw you.” Sam mumbles, but the arms around him ease up and lower anyway. He rises to his elbows to deliver a remark, but he's forced to swallow it back and blink, spellbound. The sight that greets him holds him captive. Takes his remaining breath away. In the television’s dim light, Dean’s skin looks blue and sleek and his hair is in complete disarray. He’s flushed and glowing from the thrill of their tussle. His expressive eyes start losing their cockiness the longer the moment stretches, go wide and trusting. There’s a tiny ball of fuzz on the side of his neck that Sam picks off without thinking, then freezes with his fingertips grazing over Dean’s pulse point, five little pinpricks of warmth. He hears Dean’s breath speed up, then catch in his throat and with bubbling fondness, Sam realises where the smell of caramel comes from. He tilts his head to taste it.

The remote clutters onto the floor.

 

* * *

 

Kissing Dean reminds Sam of space travel. He gives in to gravity and as if falling into a wormhole, six years fold in on themselves and he is back in the scrap yard, getting his first kiss ever under a full moon and hiding stars. His heart stutters. Those lips are just as soft as he remembered. There’s a dam breaking in his chest, his locked-up emotions spreading out all the way to his limbs. It’s like speeding through an intergalactic shortcut and finding a whole new world of wonders. Guilt has no chance to follow them there. Sam hums into the kiss and Dean surges up to catch that sound with such a fierce determination that Sam’s forced to sit up, straddling his lap. There’s a shade of stubble on his jaw and it drags across Sam’s skin when he opens up and welcomes the wet-heat-delight of their tongues brushing together. Their teeth bump in their hectic urgency, mouths begging for _more, more, more_. It’s noisy and awkward and aggressive, so intoxicating that it makes Sam dizzy. The sweetest thing he has ever tasted. His reserves evaporate. He presses down even harder and captures Dean’s bottom lip, runs his tongue over its plumpness. It trembles in his mouth. He has been dreaming about that lip for years, can’t stop giving it little nips, going back again and again lest he forget how it feels to nibble on it. Dean goes pliant under the attack, just keeps running his hands up and down Sam’s back until Sam feels close to passing out from nerves and a debilitating happiness he hasn’t felt before. He gives Dean’s lip one last bite, then pulls it out before releasing and watching it turn rosy red.

Their breathless pants are the loudest sounds in the shocked silence that follows. Dean rubs his forehead against his, then draws away a few inches. He looks wrecked. Too afraid to talk, Sam leans back in and presses a chaste peck to Dean’s lips, a question and a statement in one. Dean takes his right hand off Sam’s waist and strokes the back of his fingers down his face, traces the line of Sam’s eyebrow with his thumb and circles the mole beside his nose. He stares at that spot for a beat or two, then looks up into Sam's eyes and licks his lips.

“I love you.” He whispers. _As a lover,_ his touch says. Sam's mouth twists into a dimpled smile and he nods, _I know._ He drops his forehead to Dean’s and breaths him in until his joy is too much to bear alone. Then he kisses him again and travels through myriads of galaxies with the mindless action flick forgotten in the background.

 

* * *

 

It's not exactly smooth sailing after that, but it’s a steady flow. Sam lives for the little things. The brush of a hand on shoulder blades, a stolen nuzzle over dirty dishes. A shared look. And sometimes, late at night, they sneak into each other’s rooms and he kisses the sleep-warmth out of Dean’s mouth just to press it back into his freckled cheek, his neck, his palms, his chin. As for the other things, the heavy ones, they just… wait. They are taking it slow and it suits Sam just fine as long as they are taking it.

It’s the week approaching Dean’s birthday that he dares pushing things further. Jody and Bobby are on a sheriff’s retreat or something and will be gone the whole weekend. No better chance than this. He has been jittery from excitement ever since the rumble of Bobby's truck faded away, but Dean fled and spent his entire day in the salvage yard, only coming back inside when night has fallen and Sam has gone through a book without remembering the protagonist’s name. He looked filthy and exhausted, so Sam used the last of his patience to wait until he took a shower before tugging him into his room.

They are in his bed now, Dean half on top of him and oozing the citrus smell of shampoo. His neck tastes clean and bland, not a drop of salt left, and Sam mouths at its supple flesh almost desperately. He’s leaving marks, but neither of them cares, they have been at it long enough that their need knows no control. Sam has to get at more skin or he’s going to combust.

He releases Dean’s throat and tugs at his shirt like a clumsy virgin who has never undressed another person before. That’s not the impression he wants to give off, but it’s very hard to think straight or talk when they are doing this. He has to second-guess every word and movement in fear of spooking his brother or ruining the ambience. Their equilibrium could shatter any moment and he can’t afford that again. He’s been waiting for so long. “Take it off?”

“Okay.” So far, Dean has been strikingly obedient during their make out sessions so as not to “force himself” on Sam or some other bullshit, he guesses. This time isn’t different. Sam blinks and one layer between them is gone, leaves nothing but his tank top and their underwear to separate their bare fronts.

Dean’s torso is pale and smooth, heftier than Sam’s skinny one, and his nipples are dusty pink and hard. The sight of them draws Sam’s eyes like never before. He wants to suck on them and see if they are as sensitive as they look. He keeps himself in check, though, and applies only the lightest of touches as he slides his hands around to rest on the flat plane of Dean’s back. Dean’s breath shakes and his eyes are closed, but he leans into the kiss Sam offers and returns the embrace, wedging his arms under Sam’s waist.

With one hand on Dean’s hip, Sam moves the other around until he finds the knife scar that has him equal parts horrified and in awe. He runs his fingers over it, up and down. Dean freezes, pulls back and stares at him. Sam smiles and does it again just to see what it does. Dean’s reaction doesn’t disappoint. He grinds down into the mattress, to get away from the touch or to take the edge off his arousal, Sam’s not sure. Encouraged, he traces the scar all the way down to the top of Dean’s ass and further, slips the tips of his fingers under Dean’s boxers. Then he takes a deep breath and goes even further until his palm curves over the firm globe of Dean’s butt. _Oh God._ He’s touching his brother’s butt.

Dean turns his head into Sam’s shoulder and hides, muscles clenching under Sam’s palm. His poised charm is in tatters. The hesitant hold he has of Sam’s hips screams _nervous nervous nervous_ and somehow that's what calms Sam’s own fears. He tries to say _it’s okay, I want it_ without actually saying it and ruining their bubble. They stay like that for a while. The room smells like the old books on Sam’s bookcase and Dean’s shower gel. He is surrounded by things he loves and it gives him such a heady buzz of joy. He tries to engrave that scent into his memory while he’s rubbing a stripe of soft skin with his thumb. Dean just keeps breathing into his arm. In the nerve-wracking silence, Sam shifts and bumps his head into the side of Dean’s. He pulls his hand back and grabs the elastic of Dean’s underwear. “Hey.” He presses a kiss to the hinge of Dean’s jaw. “Can I take this off too?”

Dean raises his head, eyes searching. “No going back if we start this.” He warns. Sam gives him a devilish smile and yanks the fabric over his brother’s hips.

 

* * *

 

Afterwards, Sam drapes himself over Dean’s body before he can run away and do something stupid. He wants to ask if Dean is freaking out, but he has no idea what to follow that up with and he is sure about the answer anyway. As he fights the haze of post-coital sleepiness, he waits for the nauseating guilt to descend on him too, but all he feels is a throbbing pain in his chest, because he can’t spare his brother this burden, he can’t take it away. Dean’s always gonna be the older one and he will take full responsibility, whether he needs to or not. Sam will just have to wait until he calms down and comes out of it.

Having sex with Dean turned out to be astonishingly easy. They are so different everywhere that when it came down to it, nothing reminded Sam of the taboo they were breaking and he forgot it in a way, felt as though they surpassed it and reached a level of connection beyond blood. It was weird at first, because Dean was incredibly quiet and it made Sam nervous he was not doing it right. He was making these soft sounds, not quite whimpers, and basically that was all. No moans, no high-pitched cries. His body was obviously strung tight with pleasure, but Sam wouldn’t have known if he only had the noises as a clue. He’s kinda curious if that’s normal for Dean or it’s some side-effect of being with Sam.

“I've never done that before.” He confesses, even though it must have been painfully obvious, and gives Dean’s neck a wet kiss. Dean hums. “You?”

There’s a moment of hesitation before Dean replies. “I’m not quite that green, Sammy.” He mutters. “Ain’t my first rodeo.”

“You mean… you had sex with a…?” Sam props himself up on his elbow and makes a gesture that’s supposed to sign ‘another guy’. Dean’s sheepish eyes say it all. “Oh my God. All the way?”

Dean shrugs, disgruntled by Sam’s amazement. The sneaky bastard. Why didn’t he say anything? Sam has been so torn up over guessing whether Dean was okay with the gay part of their thing or not. If only he knew... Sam shakes his head in disbelief. They will have to work on this communication issue. Later. Right now, he puts it aside and kisses the peeved look off Dean's face until his mouth is going numb and Dean starts falling asleep on him. “Want to do that with me?” He whispers into Dean’s cheek self-consciously. “Not today, just... When we are ready?“

“If.” Dean says with a crestfallen puff of air.

“If.” Sam concedes. “If we ever get there, will you have real sex with me?” He wants to take it back, because talking, _serious_ talking is the one thing that’s sure to make Dean run for the border. He can already see the guilt trudging back into his happy-boneless body, but he seems to fight it down this time, because he rolls his shoulders and looks Sam square in the eyes.

“Yes.”

There's a sense of liberation in the finality of it. They have chosen a path in Sam’s forest of what ifs and they are going to go through it together, hoping against all odds that it’s not leading them down a cliff edge.

“Remember how you got this?” Dean asks out of the blue and caresses the white scar on Sam’s left palm. “At our second group home, we sneaked into the director’s office and you broke that vitrine.”

Sam closes his eyes and pillows his head on Dean's chest. “You mean, when you coaxed me into playing blind tag in there.”

Dean’s laugh jostles him back and forth. “You've been so afraid of her that we kept it secret as long as we could.”

“What a great idea. I got an infection.” They both sober up at the memory. That was a scary time. Hospital stays and loads of drugs aren't Sam's cup of tea.

“You had a nasty fever.” Dean says and pulls him closer. Sam has a hunch that they are getting to the crux of the matter. “Couldn't tell what was only delirium and what was real until I told you to -”

“- press my thumb into the wound.” Dean seemed to be the only real person back then, everyone else morphed into demons and ghosts for his fever-addled brain. Sam looks up and only just realises that Dean isn't caressing anymore, but pressing on it and watching his face.

“Is this real, Sam?”

He doesn’t know if he means their feelings or what they are doing with each other, but the answer is the same. Always the same. “Yes, it is.”

It feels like the only real thing that matters in Sam's life.

 

 


	9. The end of August

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I've been visiting my long-distance friends. 
> 
> I've got good news for you: for the first time, we get to see Dean's point of view in this chapter! And about that... check the end notes if you think you might need warnings.

 

 

 _"Come with me, I said, and no one knew_  
_where, or how my pain throbbed,_  
_no carnations or barcaroles for me,_  
_only a wound that love had opened._

 _I said it again: Come with me, as if I were dying,_  
_and no one saw the moon that bled in my mouth_  
_or the blood that rose into the silence."_

\- Neruda, Come with me, I said...

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean stands on a cliff and looks over the edge, down into the dark abyss. _Come,_ it lures him. _Drop the pain and come._ Sad poplar trees rustle behind him in two rows. The world is gold and green, except for the nothing below he is staring at. The sun burns through the leaves, too hot. It feels like the end of August. Always that, no reason why. He has been standing on this imaginary cliff since he can remember, sometimes far enough from the voices that he doesn’t hear them, sometimes close enough to whisper back his pleas and promises. Sometimes he jumps.

He left Sam dozing in the bed that holds their terrible secret now. Stumbled out from the smothering tangle of those ruined sheets and into the bathroom where he slowly, quietly, slid down to the floor. The tiles are cold and unforgiving - and he gazes at a stain on the shower curtain, trying to kill this memory like the rest of them, the ones he buried somewhere beyond the abyss he’s staring at in his thoughts. Sam’s hair flowed through the gaps between his fingers like warm sand. Dean combed those locks this way and that, never pushed down, and Sam’s too large hands shook where they pinned Dean’s hips to the mattress. _Please,_ Dean said then, on the brink, and it didn’t mean _try harder,_ but _let me go._ Sam did not, and their sin spilled onto his lips in white and shiny stripes. Dean shouldn’t, mustn’t remember how the surprise of that moment looked in Sam’s eyes.

Whenever he jumps, he expects the free fall and the thump his body makes in his mind, but never the small hand that holds his soul back, hanging above the fog. _Please don’t leave me alone,_ a voice says, a child. The poplars swish in agreement. _Don’t worry,_ Dean tells him every single time. The hand around his squeezes, and that’s when his body makes contact with the bottom, wherever and whatever that is. He blinks back into the corporeal world then, but it’s all wrong - his soul tethered to the cliff, his body submerged in the numbing darkness, disconnected. Dean flutters his lashes again. It doesn’t work, never does. The lines go blurry. He is on the outside while everything else is on the inside, he can’t touch and can’t feel more than ghosts can - it feels like his limbs could pass through concrete.

The light blue walls of this bathroom are suddenly dull and achromatic, the stickiness of his right hand stirs no emotion. Thinking of the dip of Sam’s lower back stops making the bile rise. In the fragment of his rational mind that has not shut off yet, he realises he has dissociated again. Lost the connection to his surroundings.

He hits his own thigh with his right fist. Too hard. It doesn’t hurt, not when he is in this state, but he twitches in mock-pain three seconds too late, a sluggish reaction when it’s already deep red. Dean watches it bruise, presses on it to test how much sensation he’s missing. He still doesn’t feel pain when he hits that spot a second time, but his toes are tingling. It doesn’t look real. His whole body doesn’t. It seems like the figment of some almighty creature’s imagination, a doll to make its boredom cease. As if that thing thought, ‘ _Let’s give this clump of consciousness a skeleton and see if it realises its own lack of materiality.’_ Dean thinks he did.

He staggers to his feet and looks into the mirror. The sight is alien to him, unrecognisable. He knows it’s him, but he knows it’s also not. That’s not his true face. He tries to claw the bounding mass of skin and flesh away from himself, but his hands are shaking too hard to do more than leaving faint red lines over his cheeks. There’s a lump in his throat that makes it hard to breathe. His neck is covered in bite marks that seem to shimmer in and out of focus when he tries to examine them. Sam put them there when Dean touched him where no brother should have. They keep blurring in front of his eyes, as if this was only a dream.

He wants to wake up. Gritting his teeth to ward off some of the shaking, he clambers into the shower and twists one of the knobs. Water rains down on his head and makes a veil in front of his eyes and nose, streaming down from his hair. He can hardly hear its gurgling sounds. Head bowed, he pants through his mouth and imagines he is sunk in the sea and breathing underwater. A part of his conscious mind insists he should take off his underwear. When he tugs at it, the soaked fabric slips down his legs like a peel he flayed off himself. It reveals new patches of bare skin that Sam touched and kissed, another bunch of things that aren’t, can’t be Dean’s. He tries to strip them off with his nails, but only manages to draw a drop of blood beside his hip bone. It looks distorted and ugly. He looks down at the thing between his legs and wants it gone. It feels like it doesn’t belong to him any more than his stained skin does.

There’s a muted pounding sound hammering his brain. It’s rhythmic and coming from outside of the static field he seems to be enclosed in.

“Dean!” That’s his name, but names don’t mean anything. Objects are objects and they are made of the same nonsensical matter as everything else, if they are real at all. “Are you okay in there? Dean!”

Something opens with a pop and the dampened noises come closer, though Dean can’t tell which direction they’re approaching from. The curtain of fluid in front of his face breaks and tapers off.

Someone exclaims. “Jesus, this is freezing cold.” There are tight clasps of pressure around his biceps, forcing him to turn. “What the hell are you doing? Dean, say something, talk to me.”

Dean raises his eyes and blinks. It’s Sam, or at least, a being that looks like Sam and wears his clothes. Dean knows what it’s asking, but his lips can’t quite work the words _‘waking up’_ out. He blinks again. Sam looks distressed, so he tries to raise a hand to his face, but it’s hard when he is quivering like this and his fingers don’t make it above Sam’s chest. Another blink.

“Shit, are you dissociating?” Sam blurts out. “What month is it?”

Dean’s eyelids close and open slowly. He thinks of the cliff he is hanging from. “August.”

“Fuck.” Sam curses and pulls him out of the shower stall, wraps something around him and pushes his weak body to sit on the closed lid of the toilet. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t you move, Dean.” He says and leaves Dean’s line of sight.

Dean’s body agrees with that order. He stares ahead at the wall in front of him and keeps blinking, waiting for the second that takes him out of this artificial world and back to the real one. The colours and patterns are still dull and lifeless, but he thinks he’s starting to get somewhat used to it, because his trembling seems to get better. The being in Sam’s body comes back with those muted, pounding steps, kneels between Dean’s legs and forces his jaw open, pushes something inside. Then he rubs something under Dean’s nostrils - something sharp that gives him the warning tingles signalling a sneeze - and starts rubbing Dean’s fingers. Dean sort of wants to pull away, but he is too slow. The tasteless cube in his mouth melts and spreads a bittersweet flavour over his tongue. Chocolate - it’s chocolate.

“Dean, Dean, hey, focus.” Sam says and digs his knuckles into the centre of Dean’s right hand, then the left. “Say five things that you see in this room.”

Dean takes a breath - almost as deep as he wants, but not quite - he can’t fill his lungs properly. “Mirror. Shower.”

“Good, that’s good.” Sam encourages and moves on to rub the scratchy thing around Dean’s shoulders all over Dean’s arms. It takes a moment, then Dean realises what it is just as the smell of the substance under his nose hits his senses. Mint.

“Towel. Toothpaste.” He pauses, gaze wandering away from Sam’s collarbone to the wall behind. “Tiles.”

Sam’s hands move to the points under his ears and massage there. “Why are you doing this to yourself?” Sam whispers. He touches his fingertips to the scratches on Dean’s cheeks. It stings - God, it stings. It _hurts._ “Did you do these too?”

Dean blinks again and like magic, the colours come back and seep into the washed-out room around him. He heaves another breath and finally, his chest _does_ expand as it’s supposed to. He could cry in relief. The image of that cliff in his mind fades, sinks right back into his unconscious. He looks into Sam’s worried eyes and sees him, really sees him at last.

“Had to… fight a bear.” He tries, because the last thing he needs is Sam gnawing his lips off in worry because of him. Sam scoffs and sits back on his heels, crossing his arms.

“What month is it?” He asks - demands in that taut tone of his that promises nothing good for the recipient.

“January.”

“That’s right.” Sam’s expression relaxes into a faint smile. “Welcome back.”

Dean’s right thigh, his cheeks and his groin are throbbing with pain. It’s evident that he did some pretty stupid shit. He has a vague memory of disowning his dick, which is _not okay._ Not at all. His dick is precious. Perfect. No sane man would refuse having it as his own. He's gonna have to make sure Little Dean didn't take it to heart, but he doesn’t dare look down and check it yet, not while Sammy’s here and watching him like a hawk.

“C-Can’t a guy take a shower in peace?” He tries to feign indignance, but his teeth chatter mid-start and ruin his grade-A acting. Faking shit with a stutter is a bitch - all his attempt gets is a thoroughly unimpressed eyebrow raise. Dean clears his throat, fiddles with the edge of his towel and tries not to think of how naked he is right now in every sense of the word. He shoots a rueful look at his soggy boxers, the heap of blue moss in the shower. Not getting those back on any soon. Also, he's kinda cold. And hungry. Which is good, ‘cause it means he's no longer desensitised. He should reward his brother or something, right? But first things first.

“Where did you learn that?” This was the first time that Sam brought him out of a dissociative episode and this question keeps bugging him.

“There's this thing called the Internet. You can research stuff on it.” Sam tells him in his prissy, patronizing voice. Dean scowls at him. “I found a site about grounding techniques and the importance of the senses. It sounded easy enough to try.”

“Good job.” Dean pats him on the shoulder. Better not make a big deal out of it, huh? It’s bad enough that they will have to sort out the mess that happened in Sam’s bed. No need to bother with Dean’s dissociation issue. He's used to handling it - pretend nothing happened and life goes on undisturbed. One of his life mottos. “Now, could you, uh…”

“Oh. Sure, sorry.” Sam blushes and his eyes scatter away, even though he has been up close and personal with Dean’s body less than two hours ago. “I'll just… I'll be there.” He gestures at the door, waits for a perfunctory nod, then leaves Dean to lick his wounds in peace for a while.

Dean lets out a breath. This won't be the end of it, he knows. Sam’s gonna feel guilty as fuck, which is gonna make Dean twice as guilty in turn, and they are gonna play a nice back-and-forth for the Guiltiest Brother of the Year Award until Jody comes home and breaks out her mother voice (which is scary as hell). Then it’s try to act normal time. Goody.

He hopes his cheeks will heal fast enough. Those scratches would be hard to explain as sex marks, but at least he can cover the bigass bruise on his leg. Now that he looks at it, it seems more purple than red on his pale skin. The wounds on his groin are just wounds beside his hipbone, Thank God. No harm done to the jewels. A bit of antiseptic cream and he's good as new. Everything will be fine. Except for the fact that Sam's gonna make him talk and Dean has no idea what's gonna come out of his mouth. Could be anything between _‘thank you’_ to _‘please kill me’._ More likely some variation of the latter. So. Fine and dandy.

 

* * *

 

 

When he's done cleaning up, Dean shuffles into his room and crawls under the blanket on his bed, bundling up in it until he is covered from chin to toes. He knows he should get dressed and find his brother, but he feels too drained to move a muscle and sleep comes faster than the willpower to get up. His dreams are blank and devoid of any feeling. Peaceful.

It's a cool sensation on his cheek that wakes him up, someone tending to his scratches. Tentative fingertips pad up and down the marks, rubbing ointment that smells like maple syrup. It fills Dean’s chest with warmth. He reaches out blindly, grabs a slippery hand. There's a loud sniff above him, then a dip in the mattress beside his elbow. “Sammy?”

“I’m so sorry.” Sam cries and tries to extract his hand from Dean’s grip, smearing Neosporin all over their fingers. “I’m sorry, I love you, I didn't mean to hurt you.”

Dean sighs and opens his eyes. It's still dark outside, too cold to even look at. He would have appreciated some respite before this conversation, but if Sam wants to do this with all sorts of slimy stuff on their faces, then they will do it that way. “You didn't hurt me.”

Sam’s messy tears pour over his face in hot rivulets. “I did. I thought you wanted it too, but you didn’t, and I forced -”

_“No.”_

“But -”

“I wanted it.” Dean says firmly, sitting up. That's the whole point. He wouldn't feel this terrible if he didn’t want it, if he had done that only for Sammy. But he did want it, still does, and it's his sick desire that turns this act of giving into an ugly sort of taking. He's the older brother, he should be the one with his head screwed on the right way, but it looks like he got broken beyond repair somewhere along the way and he’s not capable of resistance anymore.

“Don’t be stupid. What I did in the bathroom… that wasn't your fault, okay?” Sam sags into his arms and shakes his head, greasy fingers squeezing the back of Dean’s neck in despair. His long, lean body folds into Dean’s embrace like a child’s, highlighting once again how wrong it is that Dean's serpent of a heart needs him as a lover. The thought makes him nauseous. “It has been a long time coming. Come on, you know the score. I have to let off some steam once in a while.”

“Normal people don't do it like that.”

“Since when am I normal? I’m a ticking time bomb, Sammy.”

“We should have talked about it.”

“I suck at talking.” Dean loves his brother in every way a human can love another but dissecting their feelings together doesn’t have any sort of appeal. He likes Cassie’s idea much better. _Things get worked out when you really want them to._

Sam draws back, extricates himself from Dean’s hold and gives him the fiercest look a man could muster with puffy eyes and a clogged nose. “Dean, you have to… you have to tell me how you feel. We can't go on if you keep driving yourself into stuff like this.” He touches Dean's cheek, then pauses, pulls Dean’s hands away from his waist. “We should stop.”

“Yeah.” They shouldn’t have even started. Where did it go wrong? At the pool? When Dean came home, when he left, when Sam kissed him for the first time? Or somewhere earlier, in Alastair’s cellar, in their first group home, when their parents died? Only the devil knows. It’s too fucked up to make heads or tails of its source.

“But I’m not sure I can.” Sam whispers and there’s nothing to say to that. They are in a stalemate. Wanting against all odds, both of them sick to their cores. Sometimes, in his darkest moments, Dean thinks they weren’t meant for this world at all.

He turns and leans back against the wall, eyes fixed on his drawn-up knees. All these unsaid questions and unknown answers make him feel helpless. He waits for Sam to leave or break the tension, but nothing happens, and unease stretches between them like a spider’s web, transparent but too strong to ignore. His anxiety filters back in, asking him to drop out of the situation once again. No can do. One episode is one too many for today. To distract himself, he traces the patterns on the blanket that covers his legs, rectangle-triangle-rectangle, tranquil repetition. The silence steals his air, increases the pressure on his lungs. Sam’s hand creeps over the covers and finds his ankle, climbs up to his calf. The contact comes as a lifeline that Dean’s mind hooks into, something that holds him afloat until he finds solid ground again. Dean crosses his arms over his stomach to stop its churning and closes his eyes. “Don't you feel guilty?” He asks quietly.

Sam’s hand travels up and down his shin. The warmth of his palm seeps through the fabric. “I used to, but...” Dean can hear him shrug. It’s so easy to guess what’s in that gesture, constricted into a pause - Sam reading books and articles at ass o’clock in the morning, scouring message boards about it with bleary eyes in search for a cure or an answer and finding none. “I realised it’s not the end of the world. Our biological family is gone and… you know, we can’t have screwed up children anyway. If we are careful, I really think we could make it work, Dean. But only if you stop hurting yourself over it.”

Dean is not _hurting himself._ He just… he has special coping mechanisms. They work for him. Help him deal with stress. They aren’t that bad if you look at them in the big picture. Some people go beat their kids when things get too much, Dean beats himself – but only a little, until he can feel the difference between real pain and emotional hissy fits. It’s not like sitting in a bathtub all emo and slicing at his wrists with a blade, he’s not a teenage girl. He dissociates, gets it out of himself one way or another, then comes back with a bruise or a scrape and a tangible relief that lasts a long while. No one’s the wiser. They think he gets into bar fights or prefers it rough in bed. It’s not _self-harm._ He’s not doing it for attention or a new phone or something, and he’s not about to off himself, it’s not like that. For him, it works like a valve.

But he is way too exhausted to explain this to his brother tonight. “Let’s catch some sleep, alright?” He says as lightly as he can manage. “We will figure things out tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Sam stands up, but there’s a wrinkle between his brows that makes it obvious he doesn’t like the way Dean cut this conversation short. “Tell me if you need anything.”

Dean rolls his eyes and lies back, slapping at Sam’s hands when they try to help him with the blanket. “I’m not a goddamn invalid.” He hisses.

“Alright.” Sam retreats, palms held up. “Good night.”

Dean turns his back to him, waits until the door creaks, then… “Sleep tight, kiddo.”

The answering groan comes right on cue and puts a smile on his face. It’s comforting to know some things never change, despite the turmoil swirling around them.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam doesn’t sleep more than four hours after leaving Dean’s room. He tosses and turns, dreams of finding Dean corpse-pale, bloody and freezing under a sheen of ice that he can’t break however hard he pounds with his fists, then he wakes up dry heaving and drenched in sweat. It’s a terrible night, so bad that Sam forgets how happy he was less than a day ago. He barricades himself in the library and hangs his head off the arm of a leather chair, bored, tired and terrified of what’s coming. They had plans to go see an Ozzy show in Pittsburgh two weeks from Dean’s birthday, just the two of them – Sam bought the tickets months before they kissed each other, thought maybe he could make a move there. Then Christmas happened, and he adapted accordingly, decided that the concert would be the perfect chance to try the boyfriend thing in public, a thousand miles from home. Now he’s not even sure Dean is able to kiss him without recoiling in paranoia. It’s so damn frustrating. Two steps forward, one leap back.

Sam sighs and rolls out of his chair and onto the carpet, sprawls there and presses his face to the leg of the coffee table. In the first weak rays of winter sunshine, he has to squint and shy away from the window like a vampire exposed in its coffin. He can only imagine how he looks like. Death warmed over, probably.

By six-thirty, he’s done haunting the furniture and goes to make some breakfast instead. He assembles quite a selection, eggs, toast, tomatoes, sausage, salad and other goodies. And glorious, life-saving coffee. He tosses back a cup in one go, then promptly bends over the counter, coughing while it seems like his heart is going to race straight out of his ribcage. Yeah, he’s lame and isn’t used to drinking it black. He’s not gonna be ashamed of it.

By the time he has recovered, Dean is perched at the table in boxers and a tight shirt, cheeks abnormally chubby. Sam narrows his eyes, counts the sausages. “Dude.” He growls when he reaches number five and number six is nothing but a blank space next to it. “Make your own.”

Dean grins at him, disgusting in his unique way, and flicks the stalk of a tomato at Sam’s head. He’s spoiling for a food fight, Sam knows the fucker’s way of thinking, but that’s not going to happen today. They are unsure and left raw after everything that went over last night. Dean’s face is a mess of brown-red scratches, his right thigh looks awful and Sam is ready to keel over from a stronger breeze. No way is he going to let Dean distract him and disregard their issues.

“How are you?” Sam asks and plops down in front of his plate. He’s not looking at Dean, but it’s still palpable how his brother tenses up and lets the smile slip from his face.

“I’m fine.”

And that's when Sam knows he is not. If Dean isn't hurt too bad, he whines about it and moans for Sam to make it better with candies, but when it's something serious, he's gonna swear left and right that he is okay. He is contrary like that. “Dean…”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say my name like that.” Dean kicks his chair back and stands, angry. Going for a real fight, now that his flight response failed. “I’m not made of glass, get it? Stop looking at me as if I was your pity project.”

“I just want to help. You are in pain -”

“I’m not in fucking pain. These –“ He gestures at his face wildly. “These are nothing. _Nothing._ You should know it best.” He glares and storms away, tossing back a token “going for a ride” that either means he will be back in two hours or spend his day at the garage. Neither prospect appears to be a good solution.

The hours drag on. Sam tries napping, gives up, texts his brother, writes a half-assed essay for the AP class he hates the most, texts Dean again, breaks a glass by accident and almost calls Jody in desperation. Dean doesn’t reply to anything he sends and there’s no sign of him even after the sun sets and the city sinks into an envelope of charcoal black. Sam is worried out of his mind. What if Dean had another episode? Collapsed in a bar’s restroom? What if he got into a brawl?

Then he hears the crunch of gravel outside, tires rolling into the yard and an engine shutting off. He’s on his feet so fast he’s seeing stars for a moment, blood pressure in his head decreasing too suddenly, and he has to grasp the kitchen table to keep standing. Dean strolls through the door all cocky swagger and disarming smile, an eerie copy of a painting Sam once saw of a Roman deity, titled Invictus. This is his fail-safe, pretending to be invincible and looking down at everyone as if he was a maven of life itself. Sam does not buy it.

“Where have you been?” He asks, hands on his hips.

“Out.” Dean answers and pulls a jug of juice out of the fridge, drinks straight from the plastic. Sam makes a face.

“You didn’t answer my messages.” He tries to say it in a casual tone, but it comes out petty and jealous.

“Must have slipped my mind.” Dean mutters, slamming the juice down on the countertop, a few drops escaping and running down his hand. They stare at each other, the tension going whipcord tight, then Dean leans forward and drops a stack of bills on the table. “Check out what I hustled on pool.”

Sam catches a whiff of him. The stench of cigarettes and alcohol clings to his clothes and obscures all other scents that may be underneath. He should be happy it’s not a woman’s perfume that he smells, but something about this whole day, the lack of sleep, the worry, ticks him off and has him seething. “You had time to hustle, smoke and fuck around with your buddies, but not for a single reply?”

Dean’s eyes flash dangerously. “Really, Sam?” He pulls up the side of his shirt, exposes a strip of skin that rarely anyone gets to see. “You think I would smoke with _these_ on my fucking skin?” He snaps.

Oh God, how could he forget those burns? “No. I’m sorry.”

“You better be!”

“But you should have called. Or texted, or sent a goddamn homing pigeon, anything! After last night...”

“You done PMSing, Samantha?”

Sam loses the last bit of his temper too. “Fuck you, Dean. Really, just. Fuck you.”

“Not in the mood tonight.”

It’s a slap in the face. Perhaps it’s unreasonable, but that comeback hurts Sam on a level he didn’t even consider before. His voice goes cold, inordinately spiteful.

“You know what? I'm done with you. Have fun in Pittsburgh alone.” He spits out, stomps out of the room and slams the door after himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean kinda… messed up. That’s not exactly breaking news, it happens every other day or so. But he wants to apologise this time and that sucks, ‘cause Sam is able to hold a grudge for weeks and Dean only has about two to set things right. He has been looking forward to that trip to Pittsburgh, he has _plans._ He can’t let a stupid, pointless fight ruin them. So, he takes a long shower, washes out the stink he caught in that dump of a bar (fucking smokers), puts on clean clothes and marches into Sam’s room with mule-headed determination.

Sam is in bed, lying on his stomach and scribbling on a stack of papers, a textbook propped open on his pillow (little nerd). Predictably, he doesn’t acknowledge Dean’s presence. It would be easy to slip into the awkward neck-rubbing mode, but Dean is not yet ready for full-on grovelling, so he ambles around in the room as if he was looking for something. It disguises his indecision about how to approach. He whistles under his breath, putters around with the trinkets Sam accumulated over the years, then pulls a dusty copy of _The Grapes of Wrath_ off the bookshelf. He examines the cover and hums. It looks interesting enough, he has no idea why he didn’t try reading it in high school. Probably because it was mandatory? Must have been that. He clicks his tongue and fumbles to open it, but the book slips from his hands and lands on the floor with a heavy thump. The bedsprings creak.

“Dude, seriously.” Sam gives him a murderous glare. Its effect is somewhat diminished by the fact that he is talking to Dean. He must not be all that angry anymore. From what he can see of Sam’s work, it’s obvious that he has just drawn a long line across his writing in fright.

Grinning, Dean flops down on the foot of the bed. Sam kicks at him until he captures both of his feet and secures them in his lap. “Let me go.” Sam snarls and throws a pillow at Dean’s head.

He is so much fun to tease, Dean can’t help himself. There’s a tiny hole in his left sock – he must have failed to notice it or just applied Dean’s system that basically declares every scrap of cloth a sock if he has at least one toe that’s not poking out of it. He sticks a finger in there and starts widening the gap, tickling Sam’s heel with unconcealed glee. His mood brightens with every outraged squeak Sam makes. That is, until Sam’s right foot escapes, connects with his gut and knocks the breath out of him. It’s only a second or five that he is incapacitated, but that’s enough for Sam to stand up, turn around and punch him in the face. An actual, jaw-cracking punch. Images of a heroic speech that earns him forgiveness flee right out of Dean’s mind. He lives by simple laws, eye for eye, tooth for tooth. Sammy thinks he is man enough to hit him? He’s gonna hit right back.

They didn’t have a real fight in years and it’s a confusing, painful mess. They forgot each other’s tells or developed new ones, Dean doesn’t know, but a split lip is not something he’s used to ending up with. At least it’s a nice addition to the marks he seems to be collecting this weekend. It takes him by surprise that Sam doesn’t back down but holds his own, willing to fight just as dirty as him, pulling hair, kicking shins, thrashing with those freakishly long limbs and big body. It’s an unfair advantage that unleashes a red haze on Dean’s mind and makes him unrepentant when he tears apart the essay papers Sam throws at his head.

Sam gapes, eyes wide from fury. “Asshole!” He yells and lunges forward, but his shock is just enough distraction to slam him into the wall and pin his arms above his head.

It’s game over. Dean remains undefeated. Sam puts up a struggle and tries to knee him in the junk, but he has more bulk than the lanky little shit and he knows how to use it. Adrenaline pumps through his veins and it’s a split-second decision, rash and instinctive - he presses Sam harder into the wall and goes for his mouth, kisses him, rough and deep and unrelenting. Sam stomps on his toes and swallows his yelp of pain, hands spasming in Dean’s grip. They bite at each other without finesse, Sam writhing for freedom but attacking Dean’s lips with matching violence. Metallic blood spills on their tongues and paints their chins red. Dean’s mouth is one big sore but he battles for more, knocks Sam’s head back against the wall with his fervor. He has never given anyone such an angry kiss before. They weren’t worth the effort of that sort of emotional investment, but this, with Sam… it’s fucking _thrilling._

“I punched you.” Sam gasps into the kiss.

“Hit you right back.” Dean replies, punch-drunk words brushing Sam’s skin. Kissing is good. He has made his peace with it. He likes it. What he was _not_ fine with was Sam licking his way down his abdomen and crawling back up ten minutes later tasting like salt. But right now, he thinks, he would take even that, fuck rules and consequences. He can regret it, he can punish himself over it, but there’s no denying how much he yearns for it.

Sam licks the wound on Dean’s bottom lip, makes him hiss. “I’m not sorry.” He’s wriggling with different intents now, aiming to connect their hips and find friction. His wrists are twisting in Dean’s grasp and he is baring that lovely neck of his, offers it up like bait. “I’m not.”

“Me neither.” Dean huffs and knows he’s caught hook, line and sinker. He leans back for Sam’s blood-smeared lips and lets him go. Right away, Sam’s thin fingers shimmy through his fists and down to his ass, pull at him until Sam’s cock is a hard line next to his, rubbing up and down in circles. Dean remembers how it felt to touch him last night, how wet and warm he was, and his palms, now flat on the wall above them, tremble and slip. Sam watches him with a hint of a smile in his hazel eyes and Dean hates himself with unforgiving bitterness, but he’s gonna have this (again). He’s gonna take this pleasure.

“I’m still mad.” Sam moans and gropes him harder, their zippers dragging over each other, rustle-pause-rustle. The pace speeds up. “So mad at you, Dean.”

His voice, _God,_ his voice is liquid fire trickling down Dean’s body, whatever he says, however he means it. Dean’s hips stutter forward, Sam’s hands glide into his back pockets. Floppy brown locks of hair fall into Sam’s tired face and his pointed nose is all red from a hit it took in their grapple. Dean has seen prettier people, has fucked more than his fair share of them, but nothing compares to how dazzling Sam is in his eyes right now as he thrusts and gets himself off against Dean’s body. He’s the best goddamn thing in the world.

Dean pants through his nose, shudders and leans in to mouth at Sam’s clean-shaven chin. He’s tempted to place a love bite under it, on that vulnerable place, but the last thing he wants is blemishing Sam’s unmarred skin in any way. He flattens himself to the wall instead to cage Sam in tighter, rolling to his tiptoes and grunting softly in delight. He’s so close his tongue tingles. Sam makes a frustrated sound and raises a hand to Dean’s throat, wipes away the sweat with his thumb. He holds his fingertips at the point where Dean traps his noises, where his skin vibrates however quiet he is, and groans in sudden, overwhelming satisfaction. “Oh yeah…”

Bliss slams into Dean so hard he chokes on the whimpers he’s trying to swallow. His trousers fill with sticky wetness that soaks through the denim, and his hands give up on him, fall into Sam’s hair instead of holding him up. Sam shakes apart in his arms. They start making out again, trade sloppy little touches until the fringes of sweetness disappear and leave the bitter-familiar feeling from last night behind. Thoughts of dissociation raise their ugly heads. Offer a painless way out that Dean refuses to take again.

He pulls back and drops his forehead to Sam’s sternum, crushes Sam while his guilt begins crushing him and he gulps down tears that would be too beautiful for this sinful afterglow, he knows. He doesn’t deserve to cry and find solace in them. He has done the deed, he should bear its weight too. Sam’s thumb, resting gently in the hollow between his collarbones, tap-tap in time with his pulse. “Shh.” Sam shushes. “It’s okay.”

It is not. And it will never be.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: In this part, Dean dissociates and harms himself while he is in that state. Other than that, he has misguided ideas about self-harm, and there's some violence as well.


	10. Highlighter road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trip to Pittsburgh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally. I thought I'd never get to post this. There are about four or five more chapters left, by the way. :)
> 
> In the meantime, I created an account on FFNet ([sparklingice66](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/11084415/sparklingice66)), so you can now send me PMs and read Paper birds over there too. Copious amounts of thanks to ShipsCat for encouraging me. :)

 

 

 _“The tint of wheat, of ivory, of tears,_  
_things of leather, of wood, of wool,_  
_archaic, faded, uniform,  
_ _collect around me like walls."_

\- Neruda, Unity

 

* * *

 

Who would have thought a sheriff’s retreat could be fun? Jody sure had a healthy bit of scepticism about it. But all in all, they had an amazing weekend. It was good to catch up with Doug (and Donna as his plus one) and she and Bobby could finally spend some quality time together. She loves her boys to death, but sometimes they all need a little time away from each other, like all parents with older children do. God, they grew up so fast, didn’t they? She remembers how she used to bend down to give Sam a hug – now she’s lucky if she doesn’t get scooped up and swung around a foot above ground when they embrace. And Dean… If he was beautiful as a boy, he is even more so as a man. It’s incredible how much he healed since they got him out of the system, how strong and well-adjusted he became. Jody can’t be prouder. He’s not flawless, she knows. There are scars, visible or not, that won’t ever disappear. But he lives with them with a smile on his face now, he can admit the reason why they are there with his chin held high and… Oh, now look at her, getting all teary-eyed just because she hasn’t been home in three days. She can’t help it, though – just the sight of Dean’s car parking in front of the house has her smiling in joy. She can imagine them inside, scrambling to hide dirty dishes and empty chip bags, throwing laundry at each other. She has been a witness of this many times before and it never stops amusing her, even if she has to appear strict in front of them in order to keep their rowdiness in check.

“Glad to see my house in one piece.” Bobby mutters as they get out of his truck, like he does every single time they leave both of the boys home. That just means he’s glad to be back. Jody rolls her eyes and takes the bags of groceries they picked up during the drive back, then makes her way up the porch steps.

What greets them inside leaves her speechless. First of all, the place is spotless, not a thing askew. Shoes and boots lined up perfectly in the hallway, coats on the rack, floor shiny. Second, there’s dinner on the table. At least that’s obviously take-out – Jody would have considered calling a doctor if it turned out to be home-cooked. Something is amiss. What did they break, she wonders? Must have been something expensive – her Grandma’s old porcelain kettle? She puts her bags on a chair and has just enough time to share a flummoxed look with Bobby before Sam bounds down the stairs and flings himself at her.

“Hey, Mom.” He grins and gives her a kiss on the cheek. It’s sweet and makes her heart melt, but he rarely ever calls her Mom and something about his smile strikes her as odd. Nervous.

She frowns and grabs his shoulders to hold him at arm’s length. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“I bet.” Bobby grumbles. “Where’s that brother of yours?”

To her astonishment, Sam flushes. “Dean is, ah, he’s asleep –”

“Not anymore.” Dean cuts in from the doorway, confident smile in place. “Hey, guys.”

Sweet Jesus. He is a complete mess. He has a bruise on his jaw, half-healed scratches on his cheeks and a swollen, split bottom lip. His neck is covered in purple-green bitemarks. There are dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes and he’s in his most comfortable clothes, which must mean he has other wounds on his body that he’s trying to hide. He drops into his seat and makes a show of not acknowledging his appearance, but it’s pointless, his nonchalance deflects neither their bewildered stares, nor Sam’s guilty fidgeting.

“Dean.” Sam hisses, but it’s too late, the cat is out of the bag.

“Sweetheart, can you please get the med kit?” Jody asks him, a lump in her throat. She should be used to this, she figures, patching Dean up, but it never gets easier. Sometimes there’s a long enough break that she begins hoping, gets lulled into an illusion that he is going to stay out of trouble for good. But it never lasts. She wonders how many injuries had gone unnoticed over the years, how many he suffered through thinking that was the right order of things. Sam shoots Dean a hangdog look, sad puppy face asking for forgiveness. Poor boy, he must think he is responsible for not keeping his brother away from danger, despite her continuous insistence that they are their own men, not each other’s wards. One thing she could never get into their heads. Dean grins at his brother as he passes, reassuring cheekiness in his gaze, but it quickly turns into a wince as soon as Sam has turned his back. His battered lip starts bleeding again.

“Dean…” She sighs and pulls out a tissue to dab at the dripping blood. Dean closes his eyes for a moment, tilting his head to give her better access. At least he lets her help this time.

“Bar fight.” He mumbles.

Jody pokes at one of his bitemarks with her free hand. “Was it a vampire bar?” She smiles fondly. The corners of Dean’s eyes crinkle in amusement.

“Do we need to have a talk, son?” Bobby grunts. He has his worried face on, but it resembles his angry face a little too well and Dean tenses up under her hands. “Those… marks. You didn't get them from a girl, did ya?”

“No.” Dean admits with an expression Jody thought – hoped – she would never see again. The expression of a trapped animal, fierce and ready to snap, a last-ditch attempt to hide how vulnerable a position he is in.

Bobby nods. It's not a surprise. Dean is none too subtle about his conquests - they knew he looked both ways, just did not address it directly before. “You know that there's... that we got no problem with that. But we ain't gonna stand by doin’ nothing while someone’s hurting our boy.” He says, and that’s when Sam comes back.

Everything goes still. Dean’s face pales and he looks at Sam with something akin to a plea. Castiel warned them about this, that the impact of his past might drive him into other unhealthy relationships, but it always seemed to be a distant possibility, not something that leaves Dean bleeding and bruised in their kitchen. But these “bar fights” are getting way too frequent to be plausible. Even so, Jody wants to kick Bobby for going for that question straight away, because as much as she wants to know, they didn’t talk about how to approach the issue. Is he truly having an abusive relationship with another man? They can’t just jump into assumptions and throw accusations at him, that will drive him away.

“He's not hurting me.” Dean says at last, still eyeing his brother, as if saying _‘See? He isn’t. No need to hunt him down.’_ Sam bites his bottom lip but stays silent as Jody takes the kit from him.

“We’re worried about you.” Bobby barrels on.

“It was _a bar fight.”_ Dean insists, scowling. He’s too defensive, they won’t get anything out of him tonight.

“Just checkin’.” Bobby backs off. He must have arrived at the same conclusion.

“Just remember that we’ll always be here if you want to talk, okay?” Jody adds, grabbing the liquid bandage.

“There’s nothing to talk about!” Dean snaps. Sam opens his mouth, then thinks better of it when Dean glances back at him. Looks like Jody might have a better chance with him if she wants to know what’s going on.

“Alright, darling.” She soothes and begins applying the antiseptic to Dean’s busted lip. It’s no use pushing while he is dead set on protecting whoever did this to him. But this is not over. Hell no, it’s not.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a thousand miles from Sioux Falls to Pittsburgh. Fifteen hours of driving on an endless highway, swishing past Chicago and Lake Michigan. Sam wanted to fly, because skipping a day of school is sacrilege in his books, but damn if Dean sets foot on one of those death traps again. So, it’s fifteen hours on the road and a sulking little brother for him. Dean is rather happy with these results.

He has been driving all day and there are two hours left to go, but he barely feels the ache in his limbs. He's way past the peak of it and reached the numb exhaustion period now. The hardness of Baby's leather seat doesn't register anymore, there's probably a dent shaped like his ass in it by now. Sammy's asleep, has been for the last couple hours. His legs are squashed against the dashboard, knobby knees jammed to the glove compartment, neck stretched to its limits to let his head lean against the window. That's gonna be one hell of pins and needles. Ugh. Dean winces in sympathy.

It’s amazing, how he grew up into this giant man from the blond, blue-eyed baby he is in Dean’s recovered memories. It makes Dean inexplicably proud, especially when he gets to see or touch his tanned skin, those unblemished planes that are silky-soft under his palm, not a ridge or bump on them, nothing ugly in sight. Sam’s like Baby, sleek and strong. A trustworthy companion, a marvel, an anchor Dean wanted all his life. Home.

And a goddamn nerd who’s too clumsy to be trusted with Baby’s brakes for more than an hour.

“Rise and shine, Sammy!” He yells and twists the knob of the stereo to blast Motörhead into the deserted night.

Sam jumps upright with a yelp of pure terror and promptly bangs his shins as he tries to straighten up. “Ah, Jesus Christ, I’m gonna kill you.” He moans plaintively.

“Can’t hear you!” Dean grins and presses his foot a little harder to the gas pedal.

Messing with Sam never fails to rev his engine. There’s an empty road ahead of them, Baby’s purring like a cat, Sam is paying attention to him again and they are gonna raid whatever’s left of their food. Good times. This could only get better if his left forearm stopped itching. He has scratched it up last night and it prickles under the long-sleeved flannel shirt he pulled on to cover the bandage. He rubs a careful hand over it and winces, glad that Sam is rooting around in his bag and has no chance to notice the gesture. With any luck, he will be able to hide the wounds until they don’t look like he tried to check if his bone was made of metal (which he did). Having a hard time doesn’t mean he should cause Sam one.

He turns the volume back down and slaps at Sam’s shoulder. “Gimme a sando.”

“You ate all of yours.”

“I have an emergency stash.”

Sam’s eyebrows disappear into his bangs. “Where?”

“Front pocket.” Dean smirks, waits for it, one, two...

“You fucker! I needed that book, I have a test on Monday.”

“Loosen up, Sasquatch.”

“Dean!” Sam whines. He is no fun, really - who brings an AP History book to a weekend trip?

“Alright, alright, relax. It’s in the trunk.”

Sam sighs in relief and throws Dean’s last sandwich at his chest. It’s a real challenge, unwrapping it with one hand, but Dean knows the trick from the countless days he travelled alone fleeing from the very same situation he is in now. It's kinda ironic. He uncovers the bread in time with Sam’s hand landing on the back of his neck, and he is too distracted by the contact to notice the sizeable green leaf sticking out from under the ham.

“Fuck.” He says through his mouthful as soon as his teeth sink into it. “She forgot to ditch the salad.”

Sam snickers and draws a nail down to the knob of his spine. “Nah. Jody remembers everything. She just wants you to eat something healthy for one.”

“Meat is healthy.” Dean grumbles, trying to swallow the bite without chewing or gagging it back up. “I eat plenty of that. Take yesterday –”

“Sorry to tell you, but cheeseburgers don’t contain all that much actual meat. They are made of –”

“Nope, don’t wanna hear it.”

“- scraps, sinew, synthetical stabilizer-”

“Dude, shut your cake hole.”

Sam laughs, pulls his hand back and munches on his extra healthy bio rabbit food crap or whatever he’s eating. Carrot buns with lentil sprouts or something. Dean stares at his own tasty meat-lover mayo sandwich and the abomination laughing at him from the middle of it. It’s gonna crunch under his teeth if he takes another bite. It’s gonna taste like water and grass. It’s gonna be fucking disgusting. He wrinkles his nose. He’s not a lamb, for Christ’s sake!

“You want it?” He holds it out for Sam.

His answer is a muffled guffaw. “Hm, do I?”

“Come on, take the goddamn salad. Too much green stuff makes me sick.”

“Uh-huh.” Sam smirks at him, but he takes the sandwich and stays awake for the rest of their ride.

By the time they get to a suitable motel, it’s dark and their contagious yawning has got so bad that they are constantly opening and closing their mouths. Dean’s still hungry, though, and the diner across the street has a glowing neon sign proclaiming they have the best pancakes in town. He elbows Sam in the ribs and grins - _pancakes!_ \- and gets a put-upon sigh in return.

It’s downright freezing outside. The cold stabs at his nose and cheeks with icy needles as he gets out of the car and stretches his legs, the wind makes every breath feel like a huge gulp of tap water. Dean’s ears are in danger of falling off. Sam has produced a knit hat from somewhere, the cute kind that leaves tips of his hair curled up around its edge, and his off-white woolen sweater suddenly looks like the warmest thing ever. Dean’s icicle fingers twitch to reach out and find sanctuary in it.

The waitress working the graveyard shift is a petite brunette with killer curves. She gives them a muffin for free after Dean leers at her over the rim of his glass, and tells them her name is Carmen, same as the prettiest model’s in the first, uh, _magazine_ he owned back in Kansas. (What a coincidence!) The glare Sam gifts him with would make a lesser man’s gut smolder into ash, but Dean revels in it and fantasizes about the bites he’s bound to get tonight. God, he loves to be roughened up that way. They give him that painful edge he craves, the bit of hurt that Sam denies him most of the time. But Dean knows which buttons to push - his brother is a jealous little bitch and nothing, _nothing_ nettles him more than Dean’s obnoxious flirting.

He is contentedly stuffing his face, thinking of nabbing Sam’s warm hat for himself when Sam pokes his index finger with his own. “What is it?” He asks, then gestures at the fork swinging up and down in Dean’s hand. “You always do that when you have something on your mind.”

Why is he so freakin’ observant? Dean scowls and draws his initials into the maple syrup on his food. He didn’t want to tell the news just yet. Wanted to do it somewhere where they wouldn’t have to keep themselves in check. He’s not sure how Sam is going to react, but he hopes he’ll be happy. “I got a job in Palo Alto.”

“What?”

Dean doesn’t dare look up from the mangled remains of his pancakes. “Bobby’s friend, Rufus… He said he could use someone who knows how to handle classic cars. Would pay me well, too. But.” And here comes the catch. “He needs me there by March, so I gotta move out early.”

“I didn’t get an acceptance letter yet.” Sam says, tone flat.

“I know.”

“What if I don’t make it?”

“You will.”

“What if I don’t?” Dean sighs in exasperation. He has absolute conviction in Sam’s abilities, he knows Sam can get into any prestigious college he wants. But he can’t articulate that better at the moment and Sam takes his pause as something completely different, of course. He scoffs. “Are you backing away again? Is that it? Hoping I won’t get in and the distance will separate us?”

“No.”

“Don’t you see how much I…” He runs a hand through his hair, then drops it and fixes Dean with a raw look. “Stop trying to give me an out. I’m not gonna change my mind.”

“Okay.” Dean mutters. Nowadays, he finds himself more often than not just nodding along, a pushover to Sam’s demanding will. It’s in his nature not to show his weaknesses, to project confidence, but inside he’s conflicted, unsure – and it’s easier to pretend he is not bothered by this consuming pace than voicing the doubts he can’t grasp even in his own mind. It feels as though this thing between them is a scalding flame that sizzles and escalates every time they touch, drives them into things they aren’t ready for. They crash together then pull away, only to go back to tearing down barriers the second their shock leaves. It’s the weirdest honeymoon period he has ever experienced.

“I’m serious.” Sam says and there’s a promise in his voice that stirs a different sort of hunger in the pit of Dean’s stomach.

They leave before Carmen discovers Dean threw out the napkin she scribbled her number on. Sam offers to get their bags, so it’s up to Dean to get them a room. He slumps against the counter half-dead on his feet, expects a potbellied, sweaty guy to come and ask if he’s bringing a “lady friend”. Instead, he finds a kid, quite a young one too. It takes him aback enough that when the boy recites “King or two queens?” he gapes and panics.

“Two queens.” He blurts out and hightails it outta there as soon as the keys are slapped into his hand, Sam’s mockery be damned.

Their room is smaller than a foxhole and has ugly ass wallpaper with smiling cacti on it. The bathroom is a health hazard - Dean is glad Sam brought his flip flops, cause simply looking at that floor gives him athlete’s foot. There’s only one tiny heater crammed into the corner furthest from the beds. Sam arches an eyebrow at it.

“Gonna be a cold night.” He remarks.

“We can cuddle for warmth.” Dean says, cause he is generous like that, and waggles his eyebrows out of habit. Then it occurs to him that they probably would have slept in the same bed anyway, and the thought chokes his laugh before it can make it out of his throat. He kept ignoring that mind track _on purpose._ If he ponders over it too long, he’s gonna start freaking out. They didn’t talk about it, but he knows what Sam hopes from this trip and… Better not overthink it. Let’s just leave things spontaneous.

“We can.” Sam replies, eyes wide and earnest, and turns the lock on the door.

 

* * *

 

When Sam’s sweater hits the floor, Dean has the puzzling urge to pick it up and coax Sam back into it. He is sprawled on one of the beds now in his unbuttoned shirt while Sam is standing at the foot of it with the sort of nervous excitement Dean was beginning to think he wasn’t capable of. He’s wringing the edge of his own top in his hands, which is purple and probably the gayest thing he has ever worn. There’s a dog on it.

“Nice shirt.” Dean comments drily.

"I'm not - I know this is a good time, but..." Sam clears his throat, scuffing his socked feet on the carpet.

Thank God. "Me neither." Dean smiles, relieved beyond belief.

Sam blows out a breath that might have been a chuckle and sinks down to the mattress, straddles Dean’s lap. "I thought I was ready." He shrugs, then presses his lips to Dean's before they can make this any more embarrassing.

His fingertips ghost over Dean’s exposed belly in jittery circles, then travel up his torso to Dean’s cheeks, frame them in a gentle hold. He leans even closer and peppers wet kisses all over them, then down Dean’s throat to his collarbone and back. Dean closes his eyes and cranes his neck to the side, pushing on Sam’s head. He has no self-control left after the day he had, and the thought of new marks drive him crazy. He can feel Sam’s teeth as they graze his skin, he can feel the strength of his jaw and he wants it _so much_ to clamp over his flesh that he’s lightheaded from it. But the pressure doesn’t come - Sam’s touch stays tender and slow. Dean pants, stifles an incoherent whimper.

“Bite me.” He growls. “C’mon.”

“No.” Sam nuzzles his pulse point. “I figured it out, Dean. No more pain.”

Dean squirms and buries his nose in Sam’s hair in frustration. He takes a deep breath of Sam’s scent, of the fragrance of his soft locks, and develops an instant addiction. He inhales again.

Sam snickers. “Are you sniffing me?”

“Just trying to figure out why you smell like a girl.” Dean teases, even though Sam doesn’t remind him of a girl in any way. He smells pure and earthy, but not like flowers or a bucket of fruit.

He gets a grope in retaliation and jerks up in surprise, grunting. Sam groans – he’s not one to keep his voice down – and paws at Dean’s waistband with frenzied hands. “Can I…? Dean, can I -”

“Okay.” Dean might as well just pass out already.

He hears the sound of his own zipper, then there’s a sharp tug on his clothes and Sam’s hand wraps around him like a warm vice, slides up and down with minute twists over the head. It’s kinda dry and nothing all that special in technique, but it’s _Sam,_ and Dean is tired and loose - it’s not gonna last long.

Sam turns his head until his mouth is pressed against Dean's ear and his breath blows warmth into the shell of it. “Is this okay?” He asks, voice trembling. His thumb swipes circles around the tip, smears the tiny droplets of wetness around, and Dean shudders through a wave of pleasure that gets close to make him moan. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah.” Dean replies and nudges Sam into a kiss. Sam hums into it and grinds down, squeezing tighter, and Dean spills over his own stomach a split second later, eyelashes brushing Sam’s cheek as his eyes fall shut and welcome the darkness of blissful oblivion.

 

* * *

 

In his defense, Dean _has been_ driving most of yesterday. It’s not his fault that he left Sam hanging last night, it’s the fault of Sam’s awful driving skills. If he had been been able to treat Baby with the care she deserves, he would have received… something. A very sloppy something, probably, 'cause Dean was ready to keel over at that point. He still feels a little bad about it though when he wakes up in the morning, especially because Sam is propped up _on the other bed_ and fucking around on his phone, face bored. He’s not wearing the purple dog shirt anymore and his hair is wet - he must have taken a shower. Dean yawns and stretches, rolls out of his bed and into Sam’s in one (smooth, not awkward) move. Sam ignores him, even after he wraps his arms around his waist. No matter, Dean’s not gonna apologise. No way.

“What you got there?” He mumbles into Sam’s stomach instead, trying to strike up a conversation. “Sa-am, what are you reading?”

“A travel guide.”

“Of what?”

Sam pinches his ear. “Pittsburgh, you dimwit.”

“Why?”

“Because we are spending a day here?” He says, as if staying the night obviously meant going sightseeing. “There’s this botanical garden –”

Dean bolts upright. “Whoa, whoa, stop right there. This isn’t a freakin’ school trip. We’re here for a concert.”

“And you wanna spend all day lazing around in a rundown motel room? No, thanks. I’ll check out at least one of these places.”

“You’re not going anywhere alone.”

Sam’s eyes threaten to roll out of his head. “Oh geez. I’m almost eighteen, I can take care of myself.”

“Like hell you can.”

“If you don’t stop treating me like a kid, I’ll grab my stuff and start hitchhiking back home.”

Fair enough. If they keep doing… what they are doing, Dean has to bring some equality into it. Has to let go of some of the control. (Not that he is going to admit it.) He leans away to rummage around in his bag, then drops his find into Sam’s lap.

“What the… A fake ID?” Sam gapes and pushes Dean’s grinning face away. “Get away from me, you smell.”

Dean kisses him anyway. “Figured you’d like to drink something stronger than root beer and OJ.”

“Cool.” Sam grins, mollified. Then - “Gene Simmons? Dean, I’m gonna get busted after five minutes.”

Dean waves it off. “That’s a good ID. Ash made it himself.”

“Stoner Ash?”

“Do we know another Ash?”

“Great.”

“Don’t be a mood killer, Sammy. It’ll be awesome.”

 

* * *

 

It _is_ awesome until Sam gets wasted on _beer._ It’s ridiculous, annoying and absolutely unmanageable standing in a crowd that’s intent on starting a mosh pit. The show’s not yet over, Ozzy’s still screaming their heads off on stage, but Sam has already tried to kiss him three times and people are taking notice. Dean has to manhandle him out of the arena long before the concert gets to “Paranoid” and it feels like a total waste of time that they have come here. It’s a good thing that at least Sam is a pliant drunk. He giggles when Dean pushes him into the motel room and spreads his arms wide, as if embracing the tacky decor and taking delight in it.

“We should keep trav’ling. ‘S great.” He slurs and sheds his coat, hat and sweater for Dean to pick them up. Then upends the artificial flowers on the nightstand.

Dean grabs him by the scruff before he can unplug the bedside lamp and electrify himself. “Sit the fuck down.”

Sam pouts. “You’re bossy.”

“And you are a goddamn lightweight.”

“I’m 190 pounds.”

Unbelievable, how the smartest people turn into the stupidest drunks. Dean shakes his head and kneels by Sam’s feet to take off his boots. As he unlaces them, a wave of nostalgia smacks him in the chest and makes him falter. He used to do this every single day until Sammy learnt how to do it himself. It took so long to teach him how to tie his shoelaces properly… He always ended up tripping over them and scraping his little knees.

“You're so pretty.” Sam whispers above him with disturbing reverence, jostling him out of his thoughts. Dean snorts. “Don't you believe me?”

“Sure I do. Chicks are dropping their panties left and right around me.” What a joke. Dean isn’t pretty - he’s just not a wuss, that’s all. Girls dig confidence and a man who knows what he wants. If you have a passable mug to go with that, you can charm anyone around your finger. That’s all there is to Dean’s game, nothing else.

Sam doesn’t think so. He launches himself forward and tackles Dean to the floor, kissing the living daylights out of him. Dean wrenches his mouth away and moans in pain. “You pierced my gut with your elbow.”

“Sorry.” Sam mumbles and wriggles into a comfortable position to sleep.

“Dude, I’m not a pillow.” No answer.

It’s quite a feat to get him back up on the bed, but once he’s there, head buried in his actual pillow and hands curled around the bars of the bedframe, Dean deems it safe to leave him alone until he takes a much-needed shower. He’s barely out of the stall, though, when he hears a tentative call from the other side of the door. He curses and runs back to the beds in nothing but a pair of boxers. “What.”

Sam sniffs under the blanket he must have burrowed under. Then slowly, bit by bit, uncovers his right hand.

“Did you just break the bed?” Dean exclaims.

“It was loose already…” Sam mutters and resurfaces to glare at the wooden bar he tore out of the headboard. 

Shit. Alright, Dean’s gonna put it back, pretend nothing’s wrong and hopefully no one’s gonna notice it before they pass the city borders. He goes over and tosses the stick on the bedside table, tucking Sam back in. He only realises the fault in that move when Sam’s hand darts out and gets a hold of his underwear, yanking down. The fabric strains, ready to rip at the seams. Dean yelps and sits on the mattress before he’s forced to stroll around buck naked.

“Sleep with me, Dean!” Sam whines, no doubt meaning it in the literal sense. “You said we could cuddle.”

“That was yesterday.” Dean grumbles and attempts to extract himself but forgets his bare arms and the scratches he never wanted his brother to see.

Sam, of course, stays just as perceptive of Dean’s shit as ever. “What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“You hurt yourself again?”

“Sam…”

“You said you’d stop!”

“I didn’t say anything. You just assumed.” Dean replies mournfully, but Sam doesn’t seem to give a fuck about his reasoning. He grabs Dean’s wrist and strokes a fingertip over the wounded skin, then blinks, does it again.

“I don’t like them.” He frowns, reaches out and picks up the highlighter pen lying on top of his textbook on the bedside table.

“What are you doing?” Dean asks, watching shaky neon-pink lines appear between the straight stripes of his scratches. It’s the longest time before Sam manages a lucid answer.

“Drawing.” He says and presents Dean’s own forearm to him with a smile, like he did when they were little and fake tattoos were the shit at their group home. “Do you like my road, Dean?”

“Is that a road?”

“Yeah.” He points at a shapeless blot. “That’s us.”

“Uh-huh. Your hair got a little outta hand there.”

His words dissipate like smoke, the joke goes straight over Sam’s head. He cradles his drawing to his chest and curls up in a fetal position, essentially trapping Dean’s arm under himself. “You have to find help. Promise.” He pleads, unshed wetness glistening in his eyes.

Dean purses his lips and lies down next to him, holding Sam’s hazy gaze. “Come on…”

“Promise me, Dean. Find a Cas in Palo Alto.”

Dean’s mouth quirks. “A Cas?”

“You have to promise.”

 _He’s not going to remember this tomorrow,_ Dean tells himself. He just needs to calm down and go to sleep. In the morning, it won’t have any significance if Dean tells him what he wants to hear. He just needs to hear it. “I promise.” Dean says and kisses his forehead.

Something gives way in Sam’s eyes and he settles at last, mind slipping away. “Thanks. Thank you. You are…” Something that Dean doesn’t learn that night.

He waits until today shifts into tomorrow before he sneaks into the bathroom and scrubs the looping highway and Sam’s shapeless Chevy away, not thinking of promises he’s not going to keep. He’s completely ineffectual at both.

 


	11. Hot lava drops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys move to Palo Alto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incredibly long chapter. Have fun reading it, guys! Thank you for all the kudos and comments, they mean a lot.

 

 

 

 _"I want to eat your skin like a whole almond._  
_I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,_  
_the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,_  
_I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,_  
_and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,  
_ _hunting for you, for your hot heart.”_

\- Neruda, Sonnet XI

 

* * *

 

The first time Benny laid eyes on his new co-worker, Dean Winchester, he was scrubbing the hood of a Thunderbird and had motor oil smeared all over his coverall. He was absolutely divine in a simple, natural way and Benny knew he wanted him within seconds of seeing his freckles. He wasn’t an idiot, of course. For a mechanic to both swing in that direction and be ready to act on it, there would need to be some miracle involved. But they hit it off as friends and Dean seemed receptive of his flirting, gave him plenty of hope. They have been over at each other’s places, watched baseball, gone drinking a couple times, shared looks behind braindead customers’ backs - it has been going seamlessly. He is gearing up to take it to the next level when one afternoon, Dean gets a call in the middle of putting a Corvette’s hubcaps back on.

“Yo.” He says without looking at the caller ID, then jerks the phone away from his ear at the screaming that follows.

“I’m in!” A male voice shouts so loudly Benny can hear it from a good ten feet away. “I’m in, Dean, I got in!”

Dean’s lips split into a blinding smile Benny has never seen before. He does a small fist pump, then schools his features back to an acceptably macho one. God. Benny loves when Dean slips and his facade lifts up, but not today. The acidic taste of unwarranted jealousy in his gut informs him that yes, this is the ‘sorry, I’m taken’ sign he wasn't given before.

“Knew it.” Dean replies and leans against the car, unconsciously petting its new metallic polish. Some excited babbling starts up on the other end.

“Yeah, yeah, June 7. I can’t wait.” Dean interjects, and a faint blush rises to his cheeks. Then he glances up at the blue sky, his smile turning a shade softer. “Shut up, you sound like a girl.”

If that's not a boyfriend he's talking to, Benny will eat a handful of nails. Just his luck. Always falling for straight fuckboys and unattainable hotties.

“You go do that. Can't believe you told me first.” Dean says, tone more elated than the incredulous he is trying to go for. “Cause I’m four states away?” He laughs. “Go, tell her.”

Then he hangs up and glances at Benny like Christmas came half a year early. Benny’s heart thuds in halting syncopation. He forces a lopsided smile. “So, when do I get to meet the hubby?”

Dean chokes on nothing. “The what?”

“Your boyfriend.” Benny gestures at the phone.

“Sam is not -”

“Spare me the bullshit, buddy.” He smirks just as Charlie, their quirky receptionist, strolls over to them with a wide smile.

“‘Sup, bitches?”

“Dean’s got a boyfriend.”

Like a bloodhound on the scent of fear, her gaze snaps to Dean’s face. “That so?”

Dean groans. “I don't. He's my brother.”

For an expert like Charlie, the millisecond of hesitation in his voice is a dead giveaway. “Suuure.”

“I'm not gay.”

She gives him a pointed look. “Could have fooled me.”

Dean’s taken aback. He looks over himself, confused, then frowns at them with aggressive challenge in his eyes. “I'm not a fairy.”

“It's okay. Do _I_ look like a fairy to you?” Benny grins at him and slaps a hand on his shoulder. He didn't formally come out, but he isn't making a secret of his preferences either. Dean must have realised, right? Well, looks like he hasn’t. He seems to be disturbed by the notion, but not quite in a homophobic way. It’s Benny’s physique, maybe? Perhaps he's picturing him in pink tulle and glitters.

“It’s complicated.” Dean croaks out at last. And now he just sounds like a parrot, repeating things he must have said a hundred times by now.

“Every damn thing is complicated, bud.”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Charlie interrupts before Benny could start on his motivational speech. “Do you guys wanna meet my little niece? She and my sis are here for their car.”

Dean, halfway out of the woods of workplace gossip, jumps at the chance of a distraction, and that’s how they end up scrubbing their hands clean and strolling up to the front desk to meet Charlie’s sister, Carrie, and the gurgling bundle that’s her seven months old baby.

It’s all smiles, laughter and baby talk until Carrie asks Dean to hold her. It starts harmlessly enough - “Can you take her for a moment, please, I can't find my purse” - then Dean’s got an armful of baby and he goes hauntingly pale. Charlie is rambling about the new computer system she’s installing to all of Rufus’ PCs when Benny sees him waver on his feet.

“Jesus, take that child from him.” He exclaims and grabs him by the elbow.

“‘M fine.” Dean mumbles. He is anything but that. His limbs are shaking, and his eyes are glassy, unfocused. If he wasn't as young as he is, Benny would be afraid he was having a heart attack. As it is, he is concerned this is how an epileptic seizure begins. Is he going to faint? Or start convulsing? Should they call an ambulance? They sit him down in Charlie's chair and rub his shoulders in clueless worry until he starts taking regular breaths again.

“I’ll get some water.” Charlie says and runs over to the cooler.

Benny helps Dean stand back up. “Dean, brother, are you okay?”

Dean shakes his head, but what he says is “Yeah, just spaced out for a sec.”

“You looked like you saw a ghost.”

“Happens sometimes.” He runs a hand over his ashen face, then gestures at his phone. “I gotta -”

“Sure.” Reluctant for more than one reason, Benny lets him go. Dean gives him a grateful smile, then walks away in the direction of their changing room, speed dialling a certain number. He is hugging his own torso.

“Take it easy.” Benny calls after him and forces himself to stomp down his selfish need to comfort him. Dean doesn't want his consolation, he wants someone else’s, and Benny has to get ahold of his crush and banish it from his mind. He has to stay what he is to Dean, a good friend. However hard that’s going to be.

 

* * *

 

Sam can't believe they are finally going to live alone, truly alone, just the two of them. It has been his dream ever since Alastair and Hell. He used to fantasize about running away to a place where no social worker could find them and now it's coming true, it really is. He and Dean against the world. To say that he is jittery would be a gross understatement.

Their rented flat in Palo Alto is the tiniest thing that’s suitable to house two grown men who are supposed to sleep in separate beds. It’s technically a one-bedroom, but there’s a half wall installed in the living room to divide Dean’s bed and the rest. It came unfurnished and stayed mostly that way because Dean is a slob who is content living out of one set of drawers. Jody balked at the sight of the bare walls and Dean’s unintentional minimalism, then took an emergency trip to IKEA. That was two days ago and since then, Sam’s room has acquired a bed, a desk with a matching chair, a wardrobe and a bookcase that's still in its brown cardboard waiting for assembly.

Sam has been all kinds of horny ever since they touched down at LAX, but Dean is a little hedgehog at the moment and there’s no sure-fire method to mellow him out. Must be because Jody and Bobby are still in town and he’s paranoid of getting caught. It's frustrating. Tonight is the first Sam is spending here and not at the hotel with their parents but there might not be any celebration just yet. And the worst is, he doesn’t just want to jump Dean, he wants to snuggle and squeeze him close and just generally fondle him all over until he gets his fill, but _that_ Dean would veto even on his best days.

“Take out the trash!” Dean calls out from the kitchen. As if the process of reheating Jody’s stew prevented him from taking the two-minute trip down to the entrance of their apartment complex. Sam grabs the stinking bag and gives him a dirty look. Then a butt slap, because, well. Not even the smell of rotten bananas could quell his low-key arousal.

He doesn’t wait to see if Dean will tear him a new one but runs out the door and down the stairs before any sort of retaliation could reach him. The bins are outside, so he punches the button that opens the entrance and trots down to the side of the street. It’s only when he tries to get back inside that he realises he’s in trouble. He doesn’t know the combination for the entry system and the intercom isn’t working in their apartment yet (oh, the perks of renting a cheap place…) His phone is on the kitchen counter - he has no way to get in without disturbing one of their neighbours or breaking a window with a rock to catch Dean’s attention. He is pacing in a circle, hands in his hair, when his saviour shows up in the form of a petite brunette in a leather jacket.

“Can I help you?” She says, looking him up and down on her way to the intercom panel.

“I, uh, locked myself out.” She squints at him dubiously, ready to pull out a pepper spray or something, so Sam rushes to clarify. “I live with Dean Winchester, you might know him.”

Her elegant eyebrows twitch up. “That jerk from 42? Ha, do I know him.”

She snorts, eyes dark and derisive, and that right there is an instant clue for Sam to start wondering if they hooked up while he was waiting for a graduation that couldn’t come soon enough. They didn't talk about exclusivity, but he thought... Love does imply an only you, right? Three months really isn’t that long a time. Did Dean get his fix elsewhere instead of waiting? Is that why he’s acting like a stick is up his ass? He did give Sam suggestions about bed partners, but he chalked them up as jokes, was he wrong? He thought they could survive a few months without romps in the sheets with slutty coeds.

“Jerk?”

“I don’t like guys who hit on me but don't intend to follow through.” She replies with a sultry smile. Yeah, she’s definitely the type Dean would hit on, then get cold feet from.

Sam’s breath leaves in a relieved rush. “He's my boyfriend.” It slips out on the exhale.

Then it dawns on him that - Oh no. No, no, no - Dean didn't say if he was okay pretending or not. They circled around the topic before, but… What if Dean doesn’t want to play this game?

“What a shame.” The girl says, ogling his chest, then makes a face and finally lets them in.

“Thank you.” Sam smiles at her as they walk up the stairs. “I’m Sam, by the way.” They reach the second floor in silence. He’s not about to take her up on her unsaid offer, but it would be good to have friends amongst the neighbours. She seems to be a reliable person. Sam should at least get her name. “And you are…?”

“The girl that just saved your ass.” She smirks, flicks her hair over her shoulder and opens the door of the flat to their right. “See you around, Sam.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sam is still thinking of her an hour later when he is in the middle of putting that godforsaken bookcase together. There’s sweat dripping down his brow, but he doesn’t even notice his wet bangs, he’s so deep in his own thoughts. What is Dean going to say? What if he flips out? God, he can't tell him yet. Not tonight, when this is their first time alone together in three months. He can’t ruin this.

“That’s actually the bottom part.” Dean says right behind him, making him jump and drop the plywood he has been trying to secure to the other piece. Both things tumble and end up in a screwed-up pile on top of each other and the cardboard proudly displaying “BILLY”. Sam sneezes, wonders if he is allergic to Swedish furniture as well.

“You could help me.” He says with a pitiful pout, sitting back down with his ankles crossed. Dean has smaller hands anyway. They could fix those screws in the corners better than Sam’s oversized ones.

Dean’s deep laugh echoes in the box-filled room as he stands behind Sam and ruffles his hair. “Never had any legos, Sammy. Enjoy the adult version.”

Sam groans and leans into Dean’s legs. His lower back is aching from all the crouching and bending and he’s nowhere near done yet. “I’m beat.”

The fingers in his hair card through the locks hanging into his eyes, soft fingertips brushing his forehead. Whatever Jody put into that stew, it seems to have cracked Dean’s shell and got him from feral to cuddly for tonight. It’s funny, how much a full belly does to a man. Dean’s hand scratches and moves down to Sam’s nape. It's a soothing touch, feels just as comforting as it did when Sam was five and one of their fosters forced him to get a buzz cut. He wasn’t prone to tantrums as a child, but that one time he screamed the head off that poor woman until Dean promised to lend him a baseball cap. How Dean managed all those years, he has no idea. Being a mom, a dad, a friend, a pillar… Sam just hopes he will be able to give something back in return, now that they are starting a life together.

“You still with me?”

“Sure.”

Dean smirks. “Do you need to have your beauty sleep?”

Sam tips his head back and does his best puppy eyed look. “Do you think so?”

Predictably, Dean changes tracks before he could get flustered. Not one to throw compliments at every fishing comment Sam gives him. “Hey, you're paler than me.”

Sam scowls. “Am not.”

“Yes, you are.” Dean laughs and tugs at Sam’s ear. “Jody said so too. Told me I look healthier. Though I think she’s just glad I left my asshole of a boyfriend behind.” He snorts. “Little does she know he’s now even closer than he used to be.”

Nothing gets much closer than that. “Could you blame her?” Sam cringes. “Dean, I'm so sorry for that weekend.”

“One more sorry and I'll punch you.”

“Sss - So. Uhm.” Sam backtracks because Dean _will_ punch him if he says that word again. And he has a mean right hook. “Did you keep your promise?”

“What promise?”

“Of course you didn't.” Sam sighs. He needs to convince Dean to see a psychologist with his self-harm issues. “Alright.”

Dean’s lips press into a thin line. “Sam…”

“You know you gotta make good on it.”

“Thought you’ve been too drunk to remember.” Dean sulks.

“Stupid.”

“Yeah, yeah, should have known your freak-brain soaks up data like a goddamn sponge. Can’t get out of it now, can I?” He drawls and crouches down, his chin brushing Sam’s shoulder.

Sam grins at the waiting BILLY shelves in front of his feet. “Nope.”

“What if I make it up to you?”

Sam opens his eyes wide, blinks into Dean’s twinkling gaze. “How?”

Dean smirks, kisses his cheekbone, then, after a moment of hesitation, his lips. “We’re still doing this, right?”

“Yeah.”

With a megawatt grin, Dean pushes at his chest. “Lie down.”

“Right here?”

“Yes.”

“Bed is two feet over.” Sam starts, but Dean growls and starts unbuttoning his pants, leaving no room for questions or complaint. IKEA dowels roll around the half-built bookcase, running away from the debauchery that’s about to take place between half a dozen boxes and an unmade bed. Dean’s shiny wet mouth descends to the curve of Sam’s stomach. His hand slips into Sam’s briefs.

“Alright, fuck, here’s good.” Sam groans, and lets his head thump to the floor.

 

* * *

 

 

Turns out Dean is rather spectacular at assembling furniture if he’s given the right motivation to start. He’s still liable to have a plummeting mood though.

“Scoot over, I'm falling off.” Sam mutters when Dean refuses to budge from his sprawl in the middle of his bed.

“Not my fault my bed is too small for your gigantic ass.” Dean grouches, facing the half-wall. Is he embarrassed, or what? It’s not like Sam is going to rib him for finally taking the lead and saying he wants things. “Who said you could crash here, anyway?”

Sam decides not to deem that question worthy of a reply. Grumpy might just be Dean’s default mode when he is unable to express his thoughts. He snuggles closer instead and rucks up Dean’s shirt to make him move. To his surprise, Dean goes stiff as a board and yanks it back down, clutching its hem in a death grip. Rookie mistake - now, Sam has absolutely no doubt there’s a specific reason why Dean wants him out of his bed. He worms his hand back under the fabric and touches the skin under it, waiting for a sign. Dean wiggles away as far as he can, leaving three fourths of his bed for Sam to take.

“Have your damn place and let me sleep now.” Undeterred, Sam curves his hand around Dean’s hip to pull him back. Dean shudders. “Don't touch that.”

It takes a moment to realise he’s referring to the burn scar he has there. Sam frowns. “Why not? You let me do it back home.”

“Because I don’t want you to. Leave me alone.”

Sam purses his lips and swallows the first reply, then the second, goes only with the third. “I wish you’d drop the act.” He says with a hint of bitterness. His fingers dance up over the goose bumps on Dean’s side to curl around his elbow in a light hold. Dean’s biceps jumps at the touch. “At least when we are like this.”

In the almost complete darkness of their flat, Dean’s false-starts sound even louder to Sam’s attuned ears. A thousand scenarios swirl in his mind. Dean did something to himself again. Used a cigarette. Someone _else_ used a cigarette to do something to him. He saw a fire. He had to go to a hospital and kept it from Sam. He wants Sam to stop touching him altogether.

“Stop freaking out.”

“Stop fuelling my worry.”

Dean takes a deep breath, giving in. Always giving in. “Do you remember the fire?”

“You know I don’t. Not at all. As if I wasn't even there.”

“What do you mean?”

“I remember the sirens and the lights, but not the fire. And that loud sound I’ve told you about. Of the house collapsing or something.”

“Yeah, well. I hardly remember anything, but uh… when I called you back after you got your Stanford letter - you know what I’m talking about, right?”

Sam hums. “Yeah. That was weird.” He sounded like he got run over by a bus.

The pads of Dean’s fingers touch Sam’s knuckles. “Someone put a baby in my arms. And. I had a flashback. Of the fire.”

Sam’s heart pauses mid-beat. Hell no, what kind of flashback? All his previous ones had been horrible memories of Alastair and his cellar. Please, don’t let it be too bad this time. Please, God. “You never had - You sure it was the fire?”

Dean’s fingers press down and wedge between his to find something to hold onto. “I’m sure.” He clears his throat. “I didn't know how to tell you over the phone. I couldn’t ruin your day.”

“Telling me you’re upset isn't ruining my day.” It makes Sam so sad that he can’t get this into Dean’s stubbornly self-deprecative mind. He _wants_ to hear these things. He wants to know about them and be there to help, he doesn’t want to be protected and put in a bubble of fake-happiness. He’s not five and having a tantrum about hair anymore. “Is this why you've been so prickly since we arrived?”

Dean shrugs. _Yes, totally,_ Sam’s brain translates. “It’s just a snapshot. I fell against a staircase railing that was on fire.”

Did they have more than one floor? Huh. Sam has a picture in his mind of a small, yellow-painted thing… He must have been generating fantasy-memories again. “You’ve been upstairs when it happened?”

Dean’s hand twitches. “I don't know. I - There was something heavy in my arms and I stumbled. A loose bar pierced my shirt and burnt me… right there.”

Sam swallows around the knot in his throat. “It might just be something you saw in a movie and built in as a missing piece. Didn’t Cas say something about this?”

“It was a flashback.” Dean repeats and turns around to stare at the blanket bunched up around Sam’s torso. He doesn’t attempt any sort of eye contact. “I’ve been having nightmares since then. Walking down a burning staircase, over and over, praying not to drop that thing…” His voice cracks. “I’m trying so hard, but I always stumble, and it always falls, and, and I think it's you. I dream about losing you in that fire.”

There’s nothing Sam can do but plaster himself over Dean’s body and push their heads together. “I'm here, I’m fine. You didn't lose me.”

Dean’s breath shakes. “I'm so…” _Afraid,_ Sam’s mind fills it in. “Don’t you think something is going to snap? That the memories are going to come back? I feel like they are ready to blow up in my mind.” He lets out a pained noise. “I don't want them. I don't. Sam, keep them… please, keep them there…”

Christ. He sounds more terrified than Sam has ever heard him before. It’s hard to imagine how it feels to have something looming behind you all the time, some sort of darkness that has been dormant for so long, then have it start spewing hot lava drops of memories back into your mind. Without rhyme or reason.

“They’ll stay where they are, Dean, I promise.” He traces the crease between Dean’s brows. “They won’t come back.”

 

* * *

 

 

Being alone comes with so much freedom they barely dare grasp it. Dean’s nightmares wear off in time with Sam getting his own side in Dean’s bed. The flashbacks fail to come. As the period of peaceful summer days stretches out, the current of emotions in their home changes from apprehensive to anticipating. They operate on a constant level of tension around each other. Sometimes conversations grow stilted, words get bitten off, bodies freeze. At nights, their hands keep straying to previously unexplored places, and the vein in Dean’s temple throbs as their startled gazes meet through the charged air. _Next time,_ he says whenever Sam prods, and they buy a bottle of lube that stays untouched on Sam’s nightstand until that _next time_ does come around.

It's about a month into their new lives that things come to a head. Dean has just taken his nightly shower and settled on the couch watching _Once upon a time in the West_ when Sam barges in through the front door and throws a sweaty shirt on his head. It’s soaked and smells like testosterone and the gym around the corner. Dean sputters and flicks it aside, upper lip curling up in disgust. “Hey!”

Sam is cackling on the threshold of their bathroom, scratching his belly and looking like sex on legs. Dammit, but California agrees with him. “Man, your face.”

Dean doesn’t have a good comeback right away, but it doesn’t really matter, because Sam turns his pretty butt around and disappears inside before Dean can wipe that smug look off his face. It wouldn’t have been dramatic enough anyway, retorts delivered in a soft grey robe and checkered boxers are just… lame. And Dean is nothing but the epitome of cool. He can’t waste his good remarks on childish pranks and snotty little brothers.

Twenty minutes later, Sam is crowding him against the arm of their couch, probably half asleep and going on autopilot. He’s not the biggest fan of western, which Dean can’t empathize with in the slightest. Western is awesome. Badass dudes, hot girls, guns, knives, bars, poker - what’s not to love? And boy, Claudia Cardinale… Dean could cry odes about that woman. Those sad doe-eyes, that elegance, her get-up -

“So beautiful.” Dean whispers in awe.

“Yeah.” Sam jolts out of his dozing and nuzzles the side of Dean’s face, kisses a line down his neck to the patch of skin just above Dean's amulet.

Dean’s breath has no business getting trapped in his throat like it is now. “C’mon, watch it.” He mutters. He kinda wishes he wore more than his current outfit to his Saturday lazy time. If things progress the way they usually do, he won’t get to see the rest of the movie. “Look.”

“‘M looking.” Sam mumbles into his chest, damp breath running up to Dean’s collarbone in a shiver. Cheyenne’s theme starts up in the background, just as playful as the hand sneaking into Dean’s robe and tweaking one of his nipples. A tongue dips into the hollow between his clavicles, another hand glides up his thigh.

“Like hell you are.” Dean protests, but the weak tremor in his voice spoils the gruff act he tries to put on. God, he is close to the point of saying _fuck it, let’s step over the line tonight._ And why not? He feels comfortable and happy. He wants it.

Sam straightens up and presses his lips to Dean’s temple. His skin is fever-hot and slides softly over Dean’s sandpaper stubble when their cheeks rub together. “I want you so bad.” He breathes into Dean's ear and runs his palm down the plane of Dean’s stomach.

Woah, someone’s feeling pumped up from their workout tonight. “Yeah?”

“Hm-m.”

God knows Dean has tried to reason himself out of this, but he can’t even convince his mouth to cooperate, least of all his heart. “I want you too.” He mumbles and plunges between Sam’s lips to find the last traces of toothpaste mint on his tongue.

 

* * *

 

They barely make it to the closest bed and Dean’s already wondering how many nerve cells he knocked out in Sam’s brain by saying yes. Must have been quite a few. “I - I’ll just get the - hold on for a sec.” Sam rambles and stumbles away towards his room.

Dean is once again amazed by how his brother can go from pushy to flustered in under a minute. “I'm not going anywhere.” He mutters to no one and on a whim, shucks his underwear and throws it in the direction of his discarded robe. Yes, he took his sweet time getting here with Sam, but he’s not a virgin, he doesn’t need to be deflowered. He can wait in his birthday suit if that’s what he wants. Nothing shocking about that.

It still seems to shock Sam as much as a successful Hail Mary pass would. “I see you have started without me.”

Dean gives him his best lecherous smile and touches himself, bending a leg. “Damn, boy.” He says, mostly to boost Sam’s confidence, but it’s not a faked sentiment. Sam does look crazy good in his black boxer briefs. Did he spend special effort on picking out the best pair? Dean bets he did.

“I've been working out.” Sam replies dumbly.

Dean, the gentleman he is, refrains from making fun of him. It's a close thing though. “Get over here.” He jerks his head to the side.

Sam practically trips into Dean’s embrace in his haste to comply. “Do you wanna top?” He mouths against Dean’s lips, running his hands all over Dean’s sides and chest. His hips hover above Dean’s, just shy of pressing down.

Dean shakes his head and pulls him the rest of the way down between his legs, getting a whiff of his fruity smelling hair. The single layer of cloth between them rubs over Dean’s erection in such a delicious way that he bucks up to find more of that friction against Sam’s crotch. Sam grunts and kisses him again, like a spoiled brat, lazy and confident in the certainty that he will get what he wants. His heavy body feels better than any woman’s Dean had on top of him before. Incomparable.

“Hurry up.” Dean hisses. Sam’s cheeks heat up. He apologizes and starts shimmying out of his underwear, one large, warm hand slipping under Dean’s butt. His erection springs free of its confines and slaps against Dean’s with a wet smack. They shudder at once. Sam has an intense look of awe on his face, even though they have already passed this part before. His pointy nose twitches in his concentration, tongue sticking out for a second to wet his lips. He’s lit up by the glow of the city’s night that filters in through the light curtains they picked out together. God, Dean is crazy for this son of a bitch. He is hit anew by how many things he feels for him, how deep he has fallen since he truly let himself want. The last thing he needs is hurting Sam in any way. He’s only going to let him bottom when he’s sure it won’t harm him one bit. And… he never thought he would say this, but he likes that he can trust him enough to put the reins into his hand and let everything go. Not every time, but on occasion. This is what he craves now. He wants to float while they are both having a good time, and he knows Sam is the one who can deliver this to him.

“Here we go…” Sam pops the lube open. He fumbles and spills a good portion on Dean’s thigh before he manages to coat his fingers well enough with it. The cold liquid drips down Dean’s burning skin like a handful of rainwater, trickles over the soft inner side of his bent leg. Dean shivers from head to toes and relaxes into the first finger Sam pushes against his tight heat. The other times he let this happen, when he let a man touch his ass, it hurt enough to make him cry. Just what he wanted, back then. A burning ache and hot tears. The first time, he picked the guy off the street because he had dimples when he smirked, and asked him to go to town. They fucked twice, kissed never, and Dean relished the dirty hurt of it _for days._ It chased away the pressure in his chest better than slamming a door on his arm or punching a brick wall. But that's not something Sam would be willing to give him. No, he will take him gently, even if he begs, even if he needs more, needs everything, needs to be turned inside out and taken apart just to be put back together by that lovely mouth and those giant hands.

“Okay?” Sam whispers insecurely, hair hanging around his face like a dark halo.

Dean bites his lip and takes deep, deep breaths to keep himself from spontaneous combustion. He nods, clasps a hand over Sam’s nape, and watches the hazel rings in his eyes shrink to thin circles around blackness, then pushes his chin up into a kiss.

They haven’t had the luxury of letting go too often back home, Jody and Bobby would have caught them. But there’s no one here to judge now, no one to interrupt and Dean feels like the tension seeps right out of his body as Sam’s fingers stretch him open. His lips fall agape on their own accord and the first moan slips out, sounds loud and dirty and unfamiliar. He likes to be quiet, he _is_ quiet - he should get a grip on himself. He doesn’t know why it’s so imperative to keep the noises inside, but it is. Perhaps it’s his baggage, the constant oppression, the need to be invisible in order to survive. Being louder than a murmur feels wrong. Maybe sounds make it real, drive home the fact that Dean’s gonna get fucked by his own brother.

A blush spreads on his cheeks. Thank God Sam can’t see that, too busy licking inside Dean’s lips. It’s embarrassing, wanting and loving it this much, but Dean can’t help his body. His legs fall further apart, and he makes another noise, even louder, lets it reverberate in his chest. He can’t, for the life of him, stop the noises tonight. Sam pauses.

“Keep going.” Dean grits out before God forbid Sam says he wants to talk.

The fingers of Sam’s free hand slip into the gaps between his and squeeze in answer. The third finger joins the first two inside Dean’s ass. They shift angles, bump into Dean’s sweet spot on accident. Then brush it again and again, at least ten times in a row. Sam seems to be oblivious, but Dean is _this_ close to breaking and demanding things he would regret later. Desperate, he breaks free of Sam’s lingering kiss and raises a hand to bite his fist and keep the sounds muffled.

Sam pulls it out of his mouth, rubbing his abused knuckles. “What is it?” He murmurs into the groove of Dean’s neck.

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Does it hurt? Want me to stop?”

“No. It’s… it’s good.”

“Okay.”

“Sam…” He pleads. “Get on with it.”

The last step in their depravity - it feels momentous and scary. Sam gulps and gives him an expression that’s the oddest mixture of anxious and thrilled. He puts the condom on and reaches for Dean’s hip to turn him around. “I - I read it’s less likely to hurt if, uh -”

Dean resists and shakes his head firmly. The only way he will do this is face to face. He can still take back the control then if he needs to, he can spot the moment Sam regrets it and he can end things right then if need may be. Sam accepts it without a word - he must know that Dean has his good and bad days with his scars, and it's not a surprise he can’t make himself have back to chest sex when he feels self-conscious anyway.

Sam pushes at his legs, parts them wider, then there’s a sudden burst of blunt pressure and an excruciatingly slow glide in that just keeps going and going until they settle at last, joined in the deepest way possible. Sam is trembling, sweat drops beading on his temple. Christ, he is big enough to take Dean’s breath away. He is inside, they have done it, it’s over, their last barriers are crushed. No going back to normal. No going back. Never again. Dean feels like crying, even though he is aroused and happy, he truly is, it just feels so… overwhelming. Sam’s eyes glisten as they roam over Dean’s face. His hands spasm in the white covers under them, clench and unclench in the rhythm of his panting breaths. He lets out a short laugh, gifting the moment with the sight of his dimples, bright smile in place. “I wanna say so many sappy things right now.”

Dean huffs. “Don’t.”

“Can I call you -”

“No.” He glowers and shifts his hips up as much as he can. Time for the fun part. “Move, you moron.”

Sam’s lashes flutter. His bottom lip droops. “You're not very nice.”

“Stop talking.”

Sam grins again, broad and brilliant, and does as he has been told, starts rolling his hips. Dean pulls him down by the neck and kisses the soap-sweet spot behind his ear, licks and nibbles at it as Sam’s thrusts get smoother and harder, start edging him on the brink of rapture. Sam’s right hand finds his cock, trapped between their stomachs and begging for relief, strokes it the best he can. Dean’s delight ripples through his body. The bed creaks and groans.

Sam puts Dean’s hands together and holds them in one grip above their heads. “So that… you can’t bite them.” He explains with a wicked smirk and keeps making slow, slow love to him that seems neverendingly teasing – too little sugar in a cup of tea.

This is the best sex Dean has ever had, period. And not because of Sam’s technique, his size or the setting, but because he has never felt anything beyond the primitive and carnal needs before and this is completely different. Compared to those meaningless lays, what he has here is a whole new level of sex. It blows his mind. He wants Sam so much, finds him so very fine that it's almost painful not to just taste his flesh, trying to consume him whole. It’s something he never experienced before. The feeling when you want someone so much you want to crawl under their skin and take their body for yourself to live in, move with their muscles and breathe with their lungs until you are not two but one, with one soul and one blood and one heart. It's a distinct possibility that Dean is going crazy. Or going crazy _again,_ whatever. Maybe he never fully got out of it in the first place, been a lunatic all his life.

“Oh” He squeezes his eyes shut to evade facing his humiliation. He can’t stop without biting something and Sam has his wrists pinned to the bed with the iron grip of his left hand. “It’s so good, Sam, so -”

Sam groans and nips at the underside of his jaw. “Let me hear it, please let me…” He pants, pushes harder, deeper, still at that leisurely pace that punches gutted sounds out of Dean’s mouth every other second. His too-warm exhales blow over the sweat gathering on Dean’s face. “I can’t hold back.” He gasps, speeds up, then cries a broken moan into Dean’s neck. “Dean, I -” He grunts and comes.

Dean’s jaw goes slack as the fire burns through him and takes him down along with Sam. Pleasure licks up his spine and his breath hitches, tumbles out of his mouth in staccato little whimpers until the sounds of Sam’s bright-hot satisfaction push him over too.

 

He is out of it for a few minutes after that. It’s a very blissful afterglow, some mindless stroking and snuffling into each other’s ears. No need to scramble for clothes and get out of Dodge, this is not a one-night stand. Sam might just try keep him on this euphoric high the whole night. Dean’s on board with staying like this forever, joint and stuck together, but the ever-present guilt makes its way back into his chest, curls up in its rightful place inside his bones. Nights with Sam are too sweet for that ugly thing, it lusts for the sourness of bruises. Dean suppresses a sigh. The vices around his lungs snap back together, it’s harder to breathe by the second. No doubt Sam knows it already. He kisses Dean’s unresisting lips and pulls out just as gently as he handled this whole thing, taking painstaking care of not giving Dean the satisfaction of hurt if he can help it. That’s his master plan, Dean figures, showing ways of stress relief that have nothing to do with pain. Massage, chocolate, other sorts of girly crap. He’s probably hoping that if he manages to keep Dean clean of this so-called “self-harm” - Dean is sticking to his opinion, that label doesn’t apply here - long enough, the issue is going to solve itself without professional help. Fat chance of that. He has no idea how the most innocent things can be of use when Dean can’t bear the withdrawal any longer. It’s sort of a cat-and-mouse game. Finding the holes in each other’s thinking.

Sam mumbles something about cleaning up, but Dean has no desire to get out of bed yet, so he keeps his eyes shut and tries his best to regulate his breathing, pretends sleep. If Sam gets up without him, he can at least bite at his wrists a little bit, just until he can see the indents before they fade away. No longer lasting damage of course, he wouldn’t want to upset his brother.

Sam does not get up though. He discards the condom and leans over the edge of the bed, picks up Dean’s boxers to use those for wiping up some of their mess. By the time he is about to lie back down, Dean can hardly take half a lungful of air in without hyperventilation. Usually, it doesn’t get this bad, but of course his body is going to react to a huge step forward in their relationship with an equally big meltdown. Dean hears Sam freeze, even though the blood is pounding in his ears, but no way will he open his eyes now. Sam puts a hand on the centre of Dean’s chest, fingers spread out like a maple leaf and palm pushing down as he lies back in a comfortable position on his side. It feels like a glass cage shuttering. The end of Dean’s windpipe aches, but he is able to take a deep breath again.

His eyes snap open and his right hand darts out, grabs Sam’s wrist tight enough to feel the bones digging into his palm. Sam frowns at him, the tell-tale concerned furrow between his brows deepening. “What do you need?”

Dean raises his eyes heavenwards at the dramatic question. He doesn’t _need_ anything. Sam’s palm pressing down on his chest feels good, that’s all. For some reason, the actual physical pressure seems to help with the guilt-induced anxiety he was about to get a fit from.

“Does my hand help?” Sam inquires quietly. Dean gives him the best deadpan look he can conjure in this feeble state. That earns him a hum that sounds way too intrigued to his liking. “What if I do this?”

Sam’s hand presses harder, most of the strength concentrated at the heel of it that’s pushing down on Dean’s sternum. It’s perfect. Dean’s lips fall open, eyes closed. His anxiety filters out of his body in gradual little portions within three minutes, and he comes out at the end just as tired, satisfied and happy as Sam has been after the first time Dean went down on him. Dean opens his eyes with a big, cheeky grin, and finds Sam’s face a mere three inches from his own, his clever gaze searching.

“How was -” He starts, but Dean cuts him off.

“Awesome.” Whether he meant the sex or this hoodoo-witchcraft-spell he did with his hand after, they were both awesome. No bruises, no fighting, just Sammy and his big paws and Dean is back in order, the darkness in him fed and pacified. What the heck was that? Is it gonna be a one-time deal or can it be… ? Is it possible that they stumbled upon something that will be able to hold his demons at bay?

 

* * *

 

 

The morning after, Sam wakes up to an empty bed and a running shower. His heart speeds up - he made it a rule since he moved in for real to wake up before Dean to watch out for suspiciously long showers and baths. He’s not letting Dean hurt himself again. Even if he remains an obstinate asshole and doesn’t get professional help, Sam is going to make him drop the habit. No matter what. Self-harm is no joke.

He had surprising success yesterday. What could it have been? Dean melted under that light pressure he applied, even though he didn’t react this favourably to Sam’s attempt at a massage. This is something he will definitely look into - the more tricks he has up his sleeve, the better he will be able to guide Dean through these tricky months. He spoke to a local counsellor, she would gladly take Dean’s case, she said. Gave Sam a few pointers and the numbers of some emergency hotlines. He told her that Dean isn’t suicidal - at least, not to Sam’s knowledge. He very much likes life, he is a lively guy. His self-harm is all about handling the things he can’t let out in other ways, particularly not in words. So that’s another project of Sam’s - getting Dean to talk. It’s not easy, but… baby steps.

Yawning, he crawls out of bed with crusted eyes and a severe case of bed hair - or is it sex hair? - and pads towards the bathroom. The hallway is filled with the sounds of a yowling tomcat, commonly known as Dean singing to himself in the shower. It sounds happy. Sam’s stomach does a little flip in joy, but he doesn’t trust first impressions, especially because last night has been a significant step Dean was reluctant to take for a long while. He has to check.

Despite the threat of ear damage, he cracks open the door and sticks his head in. “Dean, you okay?”

The shampoo bottle that Dean most likely used as a mic clatters to the floor. Dean’s figure jumps behind the curtain. “Shit! You scared the hell out of me.”

Sam grins. Cursing is good. It’s probably second best to Dean talking to him in sexual innuendos or inviting him into a shared shower. Alas, he is now too riled up to do either – the downside of giving him a scare. Worry wart instincts now satisfied, Sam goes out into the kitchen to make some coffee.

Last night was the best night of his life. No other contestants stand a chance against it. He is over the moon, hyped from the overflowing happiness in his veins. He had real sex with a man. Real sex with his boyfriend! The only way it could have been better if Dean let him bottom and get that first out of the way. Well, at least they have something to look forward to. Sam already wants to do it all over again. To feel Dean’s well-built body under his, hear his moans, see the lust in his eyes, thrust into his perky ass - God, that ass. Sam is in love with it. And with Dean. Mostly with him. But his ass is nice too.

The whistle of the coffee machine interrupts his increasingly lewd thoughts and pulls him back down to Earth. He’s hard as steel, but if he knows Dean well, it’s gonna have to be Sam and his right hand for a few days, until the experience slots into place in Dean’s mind. He’s still not over the whole… well, the whole taboo-thing, but Sam is sure he’ll come around. They wouldn’t be doing this if he had no intentions of making his peace with it.

Morning coffee done, he decides he would rather not wait with his regular shave until after breakfast. Dean is in the shower anyway and Sam wants to be as close to him at the moment as he can. He might be addicted, is that normal? There’s this wolf howl of _wantwantwant_ going on inside him that he can barely resist. Some twisted form of the call of the wild. Also, he is giddy as fuck.

Back inside the bathroom, he tries to go through his routine as usual, even though his hands are shaking, and he is pitching a tent down in his sleep pants. The singing has dwindled down into quiet humming by now, which is way too adorable, and Dean will probably kill him if he realises Sam has been listening to it. Sam lathers his face with shaving cream and starts on his right cheek. The sounds behind him stop, then there’s a beat or two of silence before Dean yells at the top of his lungs. “Sam!”

Sam makes a face at the volume. Looks like Dean hasn’t realised Sam came back inside the room. “Stop shouting, I'm right here.”

From the mirror, he can see Dean’s head snapping in his direction. “Your hair’s clogging the drain.”

Ew. “Well, get it out.” Why is it his hair, by the way? Could just as well be Dean’s.

Dean flicks his fingers at the shower curtain. “Hell no. I'm not touching that shit.”

The razor glides across Sam’s jaw with a smooth swish. “It's just hair, dude.”

 _“Your_ hair. _You_ take care of it.”

Sam looks up at the ceiling for God to have mercy. After this shit, Dean has no fucking right to call anyone a wuss for not touching spiders with their bare hands. _No right at all,_ he thinks, then accidentally cuts himself on the side of his chin. “Ow. Fuck -”

“Sammy?”

“Shit…”

Dean pokes his head out from behind the curtain, round green eyes framed by his wet lashes, mouth puckered in confusion. Seeing that, Sam’s momentarily rendered useless. His blood dribbles onto his toes in fat, crimson drops. “Jesus, what are you doing?”

“Huh?”

At the sight of blood, Dean jumps out of the shower and roots around in the cabinet for bandages - stark naked. There's still some shampoo in his hair and Sam has the other half of his face covered in shaving foam. The mirror is getting fogged up from the hot water still streaming behind the curtain. Dean comes up with a bundle of gauze, presses it to the bleeding wound, fussing like a mom.

“Didn’t I teach you how to do this, buddy? You’d better not been trying to multifunction again, or else…”

They paint such a ridiculous picture. One pair of shorts between the two of them, an oversized piece of gauze for a negligible wound, half a face shaved, two thirds of a hair washed. Matching erections. Sam bursts out laughing and catches Dean around the waist, leans forward to kiss him and earn his invitation to that shower, but Dean leans away before their mouths could connect.

“You know how vile that tastes?” He wrinkles his nose, glaring at the shaving foam. “Clean up and we can talk.” He mutters and leaves the bundle in Sam’s hand, gets back into the shower. Sam watches him in silence until he sighs, turns half a step back. “Get the fuck in here. But no frisky business!”

Sam grins like the cat that got the cream and shucks his pants. Best night before, best morning after, best shower together, razor cuts and tangled hair notwithstanding.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I thought the chest-thing Sam does is something totally random that only works for me when I get anxious. But when I decided to include it, I did some research, and it turned out that there's an anxiety-relieving acupressure point there, the CV-17, just where the heel of the palm is in this case.


	12. Damaged goods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys struggle with the difference Palo Alto brings into their lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what's up with me, but my drafts keep evolving into these monster chapters with 8k+ words. At least it means more fun for you, right?
> 
> Warning for lots of swearing.

 

 

_“How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,  
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.”_

\- Neruda, Every day you play

 

 

* * *

 

By October, Benny is still harbouring his crush on Dean, but it’s no more than a twinge in his gut now each time Dean comes to the garage smiling to himself. They work splendidly as friends, it would be a mistake not to enjoy that. It’s futile to curb the disappointment when game nights get cancelled more and more often, but as long as Dean treats him as his best friend, Benny is happy. The only thing that bugs him is the fact that Dean dodges all his attempts to meet the mysterious boyfriend he’s living with. Some people are private, sure, but Dean, who boasts about his track record with the ladies 24/7, is not one of them. Must be something else there. Maybe it’s an identity thing, and Dean just needs someone to guide him into how glorious it is to be out and open about it in California. Benny will gladly tackle this task. He has some bars in mind that they could visit for that certain enlightening experience, but he can’t deliver his invitation when Dean is nowhere to be found.

He walks up to Charlie and raps his knuckles on her desk. “Dean?”

“In the changing room.” She pops her pink bubble gum. “With a customer.”

“The changing room?” That’s staff only territory. Why would he take a customer in there?

“Yeah. The guy wanted to see Dean’s Impala. They went in for the keys.” She types away at her computer, websites popping up and disappearing before Benny can get a proper look at them. “Hey, do you think I should get a TARDIS tattoo?”

Time to go. “I wouldn’t know.” He backs away before she could try roping him into some dress up fantasy game like last time. Playing an orc in a medieval roleplay is even less entertaining than it sounds. “Thanks.”

When Benny walks into their tiny staff room, it’s completely empty, but the whispers of a hushed conversation drift over from the locked door of the adjoining bathroom. It seems like Dean’s none too happy with the man he lead in there.

“Are you out of your mind?” He hisses. Benny’s arms flex - he’s ready to break down that door and fight if the guy steps out of line. “You can’t come here. If anyone sees you -”

A young, indignant voice cuts in. “They don’t know me, Dean.”

Something connects with the wall. Someone must have kicked it. “Yes, they fucking do! Rufus does.”

“He never really shows his face anyway, you told me.” Kid has a point there. All Rufus cares for nowadays are Johnny Walker and the Mustang convertible he washes every other day. The only thing that keeps this place running is the reputation he has. No one wishes to be held at gunpoint for slacking.

Dean snarls. “Didn’t I mention how the whole fucking garage thinks I have a boyfriend called Sam?”

There’s a second of silence, then a snicker. “You do. Have a boyfriend.”

“Shut up.” Dean whispers. Benny hears him pacing around, four steps forward, turn, four steps back, turn. “Shut the hell up, Sammy.”

It has been obvious since the beginning that the boy is no customer, but the confirmation of Benny’s suspicions makes his pulse race. Finally. In the doubtful part of his mind, he was beginning to think Sam was only an excuse for Dean to avoid confronting his feelings. But he is not, he is here in flesh and Benny is going to wait and see him, even if it means he has to eavesdrop a little longer. How does the guy look? Is he feminine or just as butch as Dean? Is he short? Perhaps he is religious and that’s why Dean’s keeping things secret and trying to pass them off as brothers. Or he's from a famous family. He's a Stanford student after all - he's either all straight As or he has someone to fund his ridiculously expensive degree.

“Want me to go home?” Sam asks after a long stretch of silence.

Dean sighs. He must be pursing his lips with this dark, resigned look in his eyes that Benny laughs at every time a customer asks for something ridiculous, like flames on an oldtimer. “I’m almost done for today.” He says. “Get your ass in the car and _do not_ talk to anyone or I’ll kill you.”

“Yessir.” Sam replies, tone playful. Lock turning, the door cracks an inch open.

Damn it. Now what? Pretend he has just come in? Benny takes two steps back, but the hand on the doorknob stills. Dean’s voice, now clearer, echoes between the walls.

“You can’t - we have to be much more careful.”

“I’m sorry.” Sam murmurs. “I just wanted to surprise you.”

Benny expects them to come out then, argument done and over, apology accepted, but however hard he’s listening, the footsteps don’t come and the door doesn’t move. All he hears is his own breathing. Then his ears pick up on them - the sticky-wet sounds of an enthusiastic lip-lock and the heavy pants of someone who’s getting thoroughly kissed against the door jamb. His face goes hot under his beard. Someone’s hum ricochets on the tiles.

“Get out of here.” Dean grunts and it’s audible how he steps away. His keys jingle. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Then the door swings the rest of the way open and out walks the tallest guy Benny has seen in a while. He is twenty at most and a freakin’ giant. His boyish haircut makes his face look jailbait, but he’s got a confidence in his movements that sixteen-year-olds just don’t possess. For that fraction of a moment before he spots Benny, he’s smiling, but then his jaw goes taut and his skin blanches until he’s as pale as Benny usually is. Dean’s arm brushes his waist as he walks around him, then drops when he raises his eyes and meets Benny’s cold blue ones. You could hear a pin drop.

Well, Benny’s got nothing to hide, it’s evident he heard most of the conversation. He’s not going to pry if Dean is so adamant on hiding his personal life, but he isn’t forbidden to have a chit-chat with his boyfriend, is he? He holds out a hand. “I’m Benny. Heard a lot about you, Sam.”

That’s a stretch - Dean only talks about his boyfriend when there’s something he can complain about, Stanford's administration, crazy class schedules, inedible cooking. But what else is there to say?

Sam, distrustful and scared at the same time, accepts the handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

“How’s it going? I reckon Stanford isn’t much of a Sunday drive.”

“It’s great.”

“No kidding, he loves it.” Dean chimes in, carefully positioning himself between Benny and his boy. It would be sweet if it wasn’t so inexplicable. Why so protective? Benny doesn’t bite. (Well, unless he’s asked to.) He’s just curious. “He sets up camp at the library whenever we have a game night.”

“Just don’t forget to take a break sometimes, kid.” Benny gives the boy his best smile. He’s not about to mention his idea of a gay bar just now, Sam looks uncomfortable as it is. “Dean here keeps yapping about how boring our poker parties are getting. Come along next time, see if you can beat the resident champ.”

Sam ignores the warning glance Dean sends him and nods. “Sure, why not?”

“Good.” Benny inclines his head, interest now somewhat satisfied, and turns to leave them alone to sort out whatever mess he has stepped into, but Dean calls after him.

“Benny, what you heard here -”

“Your business, buddy, I will keep my nose out of it.”

Dean looks like the weight of the world has been lifted off his shoulders. “Thank you.” He clears his throat and pats Sam on the back, urging him towards the door. “I, uh, wanted to ask you about that lime green Ford, you know the one. Let’s go check it out before I go home.”

Benny smiles. “Sounds like a plan, chief.”

 

* * *

 

 

The first (and probably last) time Dean says yes to a college party starts with something like this: Sam, lying on his stomach with his limbs splayed, shirt missing and mouth open around a snore, and the alarm just ringing and ringing this shrill sound that splits through Dean’s brain.

“Make it stop.” He growls.

Sam huffs, swings an arm over the edge of the bed with his eyes resolutely closed and swipes his phone off the bedside table by accident. It hits the floor with a loud bang, its pieces whooshing across the space between the bed and the door. Sam’s head drops onto Dean’s chest. “Happy now?”

Dean grunts. His brother is getting way too heavy for this human blanket business. “If you broke it, I won’t pay for a new one.”

It takes about five sleep-laden breaths for Sam to mumble a reply. “Gonna get a job.”

It would be the easiest thing to slip back into dreamworld. Dean’s so goddamn sleepy he’s not even aroused by Sam’s hand resting on his lower belly. This gotta be the end of the world. A wretched morning when he can’t even call in sick because a customer asked specifically for him to work on his precious car. Sometimes it sucks to be good at your job.

“Tired of me supporting your ass?” He digs a knuckle into the muscle lining Sam’s spine.

It’s an instant wake-up call; Sam jerks away from the touch with a snort. “Support it all you want.”

“Innuendo, Sammy?”

“Just tryin’ to sleep.”

“You’re gonna be late.” Unable to resist, Dean strokes a hand down Sam's back from his nape to the edge of his pants.

Sam’s body curves into his palm like a cat’s, then tenses, shivers through a groggy stretch. A bone pops. Sam sighs. “You too.”

“Hm.”

“Dean?”

“Hm.”

“I’m invited to a party tonight.”

Dean spares a mournful thought for sorority girls, then tugs on Sam’s ear, just to hear his annoyed scoff. “Have fun.”

Sam props himself up on his elbows and yawns into his hand. “You could come with me.”

“Bad idea.”

“Please. We haven’t gone out together in months.”

And for a good reason. One misstep can ruin their lives and sentence them to prison for years. How would they look their parents in the eyes then? Dean shudders thinking about it. It’s easy to see how much of a risk this party would be. But he can’t deny he wants to… he just wants to know what it’s like. A small piece of this wonderful experience Sam is going through. Don’t get him wrong, he doesn’t want to be in Sam’s place and start studying again. High school was quite enough, thanks. But not being a part of Sam’s journey feels wrong. It hurts that he doesn’t understand most of the problems Sam is going to face, that he can’t relate to the news he brings home. Can’t help the way he used to. All he can provide is his presence, which is… not much. He’s surprised Sam hasn’t yet shown interest in moving on.

“I really want you to come.” Sam kisses the corner of his mouth and stares at him with the most innocent expression Dean has ever seen on a grown-ass man. Goddamn him. He knows Dean like the back of his hand. How could he deny him anything?

“First rule: you can’t get plastered. Second -”

“Yeah!” Sam’s face brightens with an ear-splitting grin, a picture of joy, and he throws himself into a kiss that clears Dean’s mind of any other rules he would have wanted to enforce for the evening.

 

The party is a blast. The booze is cheap, the girls are sexy and in the overexcited, buzzed crowd Sam can be as handsy as he wants. The music is too loud to hear each other’s shouting - no one even acknowledges Dean with anything more than a nod, let alone ask for his name. He might as well be a random frat boy who caught Sam’s eye, his friends don’t give a fuck about him. It’s incredibly nice to let go and pretend he is a happy freshman like them all without a care in the world. If this is college life, Dean has been missing out on a lot.

At one point, the DJ announces they are gonna flick on some UV lights and carry on that way. It gets batshit crazy from there. Everywhere Dean looks a hundred different neon colours pop up, people are screaming and laughing. Sam’s teeth glow blue-white, a beacon that draws Dean up on his tiptoes for a kiss, however undignified that is. He’s not used to this, his experience is more or less limited to bars and local dumps back home, but this - this is awesome.

Yeah, well. Then it all goes to shit.

It comes down to the throngs of people (like Dean) who came basically uninvited. The place is only big enough for a certain number of students before it turns similar to a tin of sardines. They go way past that critical number and it gets close to impossible to dance. Dean’s alarms go off, blaring _mayday mayday mayday_ in his mind. Someone steps on his heel. He spins around to shoot daggers at the culprit and the stout kid backs away, probably fearing his life, but the satisfaction of a bigger breathing space evaporates when Dean turns back around, and Sam is nowhere in sight.

“Sam?” He calls out, even though he knows it’s futile to think anyone will hear it. “Sammy!”

He shouldn’t be this worried, Sam can take care of himself, but it’s ingrained in him, the need to know with absolute certainty that his brother is safe. And while neither of them drank too much, Sam had just enough to lose some of the control over his capacities. Dean is going to flip his shit if someone tries taking advantage of that. With his pulse pounding in his ears, it takes him approximately fifteen minutes to give up on scouring the dance floor and go to the exit instead, hoping Sam had the same idea when they lost each other. He shoulders his way out, shrugs off a hot chick with barely a glance at her ample cleavage, then heaves a deep sigh of relief when he spots Sam just a few feet away, hunched over a trash bin. The poor boy is puking his guts out.

Dean’s rush of joy is short-lived, however, because he gets a good look at the woman standing next to him and his blood boils at the sight of her calculating smile. It’s that brunette co-ed living on the second floor of their apartment building. The one who wouldn’t stop trying to steal Sam away from him, the one Dean was foolish enough to piss off. Ruby.

Sam fishes a tissue out of his pocket to wipe his mouth, fingers shaking so bad he has to tighten them into a fist to keep them steady. “Hands… touching me everywhere.” He mumbles, brows drawn together in an almost physical pain.

Behind his back, Ruby purses her lips and rolls her eyes. “It must have been a drink that upset your stomach. Come back inside with me.”

She puts a delicate hand on Sam’s back, way too fucking close to his nape, and Sam jerks away from her with a violent jump. “Don’t.” He gasps, then glances up at Dean and a fraction of the tension eases off his shoulders. “Dean.”

He staggers forward and curls his arms around Dean’s waist, forehead clammy from cold sweat. Despite the fright and his irritation of bumping into that evil bitch here of all places, Dean squeezes back, running a hand through Sam’s hair. “Easy, easy.”

Sam sags into the embrace like a sack of potatoes. “Let’s go home, okay?”

Ruby crosses her arms, glaring with a put-out expression. Dean feels a perverse urge to grin at her just to see if she can combust.

“You promised a dance.” She tries to get her way one last time.

One hand still holding on to Dean’s shirt, Sam pulls back and offers her a weak smile. “Sorry, Ruby, I can’t. Rain check?”

She huffs, shaking her long hair out of her eyes. “Okay.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime, Sam.” She gives them a tight smile, then turns on her heels and marches back into the crowd. Dean sends a smug glance after her disappearing figure. Yeah, go dance alone, stupid bitch.

Sam smacks him in the chest and takes off down the road towards their car, still a bit wobbly. “Stop being childish.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

Dean scowls and kicks a rock. It rolls a few steps ahead, to Sam’s half of the sidewalk. “Did you really have to befriend her?”

Sam gives him a sideways look and kicks the little stone back to Dean’s half. “She’s not as bad as you think. Just because she _roasted_ you after you hit on her without meaning it - I know, I know, that’s your way of being friendly, I get it. But has it ever occurred to you that most people don’t?”

“That’s not why I hate her.”

“Then please, enlighten me. Because I fail to see what your problem is.”

“She’s all over you. I don’t like it.”

“She knows very well that I’m taken. Don’t worry.”

Dean grumbles but decides to leave it alone for now. He’s not the jealous type, that’s Sam’s resort. As long as it’s him Sam is walking home with, kicking a rock back and forth, he will manage. He’s just concerned. Something is wrong with that woman. But if Sam says he can deal with her, Dean gotta try trusting him on that, right?

It’s surprisingly warm outside and the blanketing darkness surrounds them like a veil of intimacy. Dean tips his head back to relish the light breeze ruffling his hair and lets his hand brush Sam’s every other step or so. He has no reason to be jealous. She does not get to enjoy this quiet stroll. She does not get to have this. This is all Dean’s. “What was that about hands you said back there?”

Sam clears his throat. “Nothing.”

“You just wanted to say hi to your dinner again?”

“Can we drop it?” Sam mutters just as they reach the Impala.

He goes to climb in on the passenger side, but Dean presses him up against the car and cages him in with his arms before he can open the door. They frown at each other. Sam’s fist finds the hem of Dean’s shirt again, a nervous tick. Dean’s features harden. “So when it's my problem, you are all _let’s share our feelings and comb each other’s hair,_ but when it’s yours, you want me to drop it?”

A myriad of emotions flash in Sam’s gaze until his expression settles on the most peculiar one - shame. Dean’s frown deepens. That’s not something he gets to see on his brother’s face every day, and it sure isn’t a good sign. He wants that look gone.

Sam casts his eyes down. “It was my old thing.” He mumbles, dusting imaginary lint off Dean’s shoulder just to do something with his free hand. “That touch phobia. Looks like I still have some limits.”

Face bathed in the yellow light of the street, he looks defenseless and frighteningly young again. His pallid skin reminds Dean of all the times he had to cure him back to health as a kid. He’s surprised the thought doesn’t make him sick the way it used to. God, it has been what, ten months? Not even a whole year, and he’s already getting over it. What does that make him?

He lets his arms drop, swallowing. “Do you want me to-” _Stop touching you,_ is what he intends to say, but Sam is having none of it.

He leans forward and fits himself into Dean’s arms like a child seeking shelter from cold. “No. This is fine.”

Dean pulls him close, shuts his eyes, and imagines they are normal people sharing a normal embrace, not damaged goods clinging to each other for salvation.

 

* * *

 

 

As January comes to an end, so does the golden idyll of absolute love Sam has been basking in for months. Things get grittier between them, harder. They fall out of sync. Despite their newfound freedom in the bedroom, Dean gets snappish and unpredictable more and more often. He feels cornered and it’s Sam’s fault, he knows. There’s only one thing that could cause this much frustration, the lack of relief. But he can’t just throw in the towel and say _‘Alright, go ahead, beat yourself bloody’,_ because Dean probably would after this long a withdrawal. Even though it’s not enough, Sam keeps his eyes open, uses his tricks and does the best he can to alleviate the stress Dean hoards on himself. He knows no other way to handle whatever it is that they are going through. Dean is an adult, by no means can Sam force him to seek out therapy if he is freaked out and doesn’t consent to it.

There are other issues to consider too. Classes start up again as the next quarter begins, and Sam is up on the figurative treadmill of college, running his lungs out only to be told he didn’t get half a step closer to the finish line. The nooks and crannies of Stanford’s library network welcome him back like best friends. He meets a bunch of new people, grows to despise just as many stuck-up snobs, eats crappy food, stays up all night writing assignments, listens to boring car stories and practices hobby cartography on Dean’s back. Rinse, repeat. After the rush of open-mouthed exhilaration his first semester was, the patterns begin to stand out and make an extraordinary experience mere habit. It’s not fun. And it’s decidedly not something he should be put on a pedestal for. Stanford or not, Sam doesn’t want to mooch off Dean and their parents for his entire time here. He agreed to take a break, God knows he needed it, but Jody may insist all she wants, he can’t stand to see everyone working their asses off around him while all he does is daydreaming through tedious lectures and fooling around with his own brother. If someone’s ought to feel guilty, it’s him. Being a devoted bookworm does not entitle him to be a freeloading slacker. He has to find a job. It’s not as easy as it sounds - out of the sixteen thousand people who enrolled for the semester, he is just another fish in a tiny pond.

That’s where Ruby comes into the picture again. Sam is in the middle of a heated argument with Dean about whether he should strain himself with work or not when she comes down the stairs to the mailboxes Sam’s leaning against. He hangs up as fast as he can, but she overheard it already, judged by her flirtatiously raised eyebrow.

“Looking for a job, huh?” She stares at him like she wants to devour his soul. “Don’t listen to that control-freak, if you want to work, do it.”

“Yeah, well. I just ran it past him. It’s my decision.” Sam replies, clutching their mail to his chest with a strained smile. He would have to make up one hell of a lie if she saw the surnames on them. Is it plausible to say they eloped in Vegas? “He thinks I’m not fit to study and work at the same time.”

She snorts. “You’re way stronger than he thinks so.”

“Thanks.”

“I work at the tattoo shop a few blocks down. You should drop by next week. Lucas, my boss, was talking about hiring a new cashier the other day.” She saunters closer, voice dropping to a low and sensual tone. “I’m sure he’d like you.”

Sam backs into the boxes behind him. “I will, uh, think about it.”

“Maybe I can persuade you into getting a tat yourself.” Her lips twitch in amusement as she steps into Sam’s personal space. “I can give you a discount for... certain areas.”

Jesus Christ. “I'll pass.”

“Come on, Sam, embrace your inner devil.”

Sam shakes his head, side-stepping her as carefully as he can. “Tattoos aren’t my thing.”

Her gaze sweeps over him and stops at his chest again. Sam’s face heats up. “What a shame.”

“See you later.” He stammers and escapes her at last, runs up the stairs taking the steps two at a time. Holy hell, she’s a weird one.

 

If she’s weird, her boss is downright creepy. The moment they meet, he asks Sam to call him God, then punches him in the shoulder and laughs it off as a joke, offering him the job without a second thought. It should make all his alarm bells go off, yet it doesn’t. He wants to prove himself so much that he would probably work for Satan himself. Sam knows that Dean is going to bite his head off, but he has been told so many times that he can’t do this that he _has to_ say yes. He has to. Besides, it’s a good position - part-time, but with an amazing salary that will let him save enough to compensate for the money he’s going to stop taking from his parents. With this, he and Dean could be a hundred percent independent. They could do anything they want. It might even make Dean feel secure enough to go on a vacation with him. How wonderful would that be? This is an opportunity Sam can’t possibly let go. So, he takes it.

It starts off without a hitch. Dean isn’t tetchy for more than a day, which he counts as a win. Managing two things at once is exhausting and awkward at times, especially when Lucas comes out of the back room and whispers disturbing things in his ear, but he figures the guy has an odd sense of humour and it’s only a matter of getting used to it. Ruby turns out to be a nice friend once she gets over the fact that Sam isn’t into her. Sam is happy and feels more accomplished than ever in his life - it feels like he can finally do something, earning his own living, instead of being the passive party who has to lean on others, unable to support himself.

However… he kind of forgets that Dean more or less operates for that alone. To take care of him. And he doesn’t remember until it’s too late, until it blows up into his face and threatens to ruin it all. Until Dean relapses.

 

It happens on one of those weekends when Dean is dead on his feet and needs to sleep until noon to resemble a living human. Sam has things to do, though. He plans to meet up with his best friend, walk by the library to take some of his textbooks back, buy Dean a sugary pastry and bribe him into a trip to the beach. Except, he doesn’t count on Eileen’s tag-along friends - well, acquaintances, really - to show up with her at his doorstep.

“Hey, Sam, buddy, what’s up?” Ed all but exclaims, thumping Sam on the chest and most likely straining his back to look bigger than he actually is. It falls quite a bit short of being impressive. He comes up to Sam’s chin. “We were lurking around the neighbourhood, you know, promoting our new Youtube gig, Ghostfacers, it’s a big hit by the way, you should check it out, so we were nearby when we saw your girlfriend here and thought, why not to say hi? And uh, now that we did, Harry sort of has to go, so if you would be kind enough to let us in...”

Sam makes a bewildered face and takes note of the way Harry shifts from feet to feet, expression pinched. What the everloving hell? Did they come up here to… use the bathroom? Eileen just looks like she wants to die on the spot, even though she had no way to know what Ed rambled about, standing where she is.

“Eileen isn’t my girlfriend.” Sam says in a bit of a daze, but opens the door wider to let those goofballs in. What harm could they do in the ten minutes, tops, they will spend in here?

Pretty damn much, it turns out, because the first thing that halfwit Harry does in his desperation is running straight inside without asking Sam for directions. And from the two doors he could have chosen, of course he decides to try the wrong one. Sam sees it in slow motion - their bedroom door banging into the wall, Dean’s eyes snapping open in fright, and the picture frame on their bedside table hurtling through the air straight towards Harry’s forehead. The jackass has just enough time to duck. The glass hits the doorjamb and shatters into shards in front of their eyes.

“Oh - Oh, crap, sorry, uh, I’ll just -” Harry stutters and retreats, then dashes through the other door and locks himself in before he honest-to-God wets himself from the look Dean gives him.

Sam cringes. He is fucking done for. Dead. “Guys, uh… Make yourself at home, I’ll be back in a minute.” He says to the other two in the doorway and takes a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

 

Dean wastes no time to cut to the chase as soon as the door is closed. He jumps out of bed, eyes bloodshot and chest still heaving, and hisses into Sam’s face. “What the fuck, Sam? Tell me you didn’t just bring half a football team to our apartment.”

Sam wisely refrains from rolling his eyes. “I didn’t bring them, Dean. They came uninvited. I didn’t tell anyone that I have a boyfriend, they all thought I lived alone.” God, it still feels so good to say. Boyfriend, his boyfriend... If only he could say it more often. “We’ll be going in a minute. You can go back to sleep.”

Dean’s eyes flash. HIs body seems so soft and sleep-creased, it’s tempting to shut him up with a kiss, but Sam doesn’t have a death wish. It’s quite bad as it is - Dean looks about ready to give him a shiner. “Did you lose your mind? One mistake and we are toast!”

“I’m aware.” Sam scowls. This isn’t his fault, dammit. The only person he ever brought here in nine months is Eileen, the only real friend he has. Accidents happen, Dean can’t pull this on him. “Look. You don’t have to be on edge all the damn time. Relax. They have no idea who you are. Poor Harry didn’t even dare look at you after you threw our picture at his head…”

He reaches out and snags Dean’s right hand to calm him down, but it kind of goes to stir things the other way. Dean’s nails claw into his hand. “I’m not cut out for this. It’s you who are supposed to be the reasonable one.”

“I _am_ reasonable. You are paranoid.”

“Don’t you - why don’t you understand?”

Dean isn’t in any condition to argue with at the moment. He’s too tired, it would just come to blows.

“I’m not getting into this with you. We’ll talk after you had your first coffee.” Sam says with a placating gesture, then turns to walk back out and usher his schoolmates away. So much for going to the library.

The instant he reaches for the handle, though, he has a gut feeling, call it sixth sense, that something is going to go seriously wrong. It takes less than a second to realise what it is, but it’s too late to prevent it from happening. He hears a dull thud that vibrates through the room and something heavy drops to the floor behind him. He whips around and finds Dean sitting in the corner, knees drawn up and face hidden in them, and a sizeable dent in the gypsum board above him. There’s a spot of blood smeared on it. Shit. He punched the goddamn wall.

“Dean!” Sam yelps and rushes over to him, stroking his palms down shaking shoulders, trying to pry Dean’s injured hand away from the cradle of his other one. Dean resists, breathing like a racehorse after a run, still hiding his face. Sam bites his lip. “It’s okay. Let me look at it.”

In the end, he has to pull it away from Dean’s lap by brute force, using both his arms to bend Dean’s in the other direction and get a glimpse of the injury. As soon as it’s uncovered, Dean chokes on a sob and goes limp, giving up. Sam hopes he isn’t crying or he is going to tear up too. It has been so long… They made it so far… He can’t believe that such a stupid, incidental thing could erase half a year's worth of progress.

“I’m not mad.” Sam murmurs to nip all other self-deprecating thoughts in the bud before they could result in anything worse.

Dean’s right is sickeningly red and trembling, his knuckles swollen and scraped. When he brushes his fingertips over them, Dean flinches and grunts, jerking his head up. His wide green eyes lock on Sam, filled with unshed tears, but almost… almost happy. Christ, he is _glad_ he busted up his hand. He’s glad Sam gave him a little more pain by touching it. He wants him to do it again.

“No. Dean, no.” He shakes his head, crushed. This runs even deeper than he thought, it’s even worse. Did he _make it_ worse? He wants to scream, but what good would that do?

“Can you curl your fingers?” He asks instead, blinking rapidly to ward off the dampness under his eyelids. Dean squeezes his eyes shut in pain, but his fingers move and grab onto Sam’s pointer the way they are supposed to. Sam’s exhale ruffles his bangs. “I don’t think you broke it.”

“Broke the wall, though.” Dean mutters, voice hoarse. He looks calmer than he has been in weeks. Sam wants to smash something into pieces.

“I’ll bring you an ice pack.” He says and lets Dean’s hand go. What a start to his Saturday. Fuck his life.

It’s later that day, when he goes for a quick jog to calm down, that he runs into Ruby again and makes the mistake of his year, probably. He agrees to go inside her flat.

Two shots and some comfort food later, he is spilling the beans about his failure, about wanting to help someone who hurts themselves and just making things worse by trying. She strokes his hair and asks, _is it him?_ And Sam nods, lets it come out in drunken fits and bouts, tells her almost everything that the unnaturally murky haze over his mind doesn’t block even from himself. She nods along, says she knows people like that, tells him she knows ways to help and he gobbles it all up, wanting to believe more than anything. And the longer he stays, the more she tricks him into drinking, the more alcohol he tosses back the hungrier he gets, and it’s not long before the world goes completely clouded and black. He doesn’t remember more from that night.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time it gets dark outside, Dean feels like utter crap. He didn’t want to lose control like that over a few kids who disturbed his sleep. It was pathetic to lash out just because he was taken by surprise. It reminds him of dead week, back in December. He and Sam drove each other nuts. It reached a point when it got so out of hand that they spent an entire week without sleeping in the same bed. They made up at the wrong time too - going home for Christmas was an absolute must or Jody would have come and dragged them back herself, but home also meant being full-time brothers and censoring the intimate familiarity they had developed over the previous six months. Sam was subdued the whole time they spent there, moping in his favourite armchair while Bobby was spouting vitriol at archive baseball games. That was three months ago. Unbelievable. The days go by so fast.

Dean doesn’t mean to be annoying, but it’s just so hard to… He doesn’t have anything to offer for someone like Sam. He knows he is not stupid, he is clever enough in his own way, but it’s nothing close to Sam’s level. Every now and then he wonders if he should try getting a degree just to be a little less disappointing as a partner. At least, the sex is good. Angry, comforting, fast or slow, Dean is on board. That’s the only segment of this messed-up relationship where he doesn’t feel inadequate. He knows he is blowing this out of proportions, but he can’t help it, sometimes this negativity hits him like a ton of bricks.

While Sam’s days are packed with new experiences, he has nothing to give back, nothing to reciprocate with. Sam doesn’t give a fuck about cars, he can barely tell them apart. He listens patiently every night to whatever boring anecdote Dean is able to bring up from his day, but there’s not much more than politeness to it. And while Sam seems to gather more and more memories without Dean, things that define him outside of the things connected to him, Dean feels like he has nothing that doesn’t hook him to Sam. He is useless. Sam doesn’t even need his financial support now, not really. There’s no reason for him to need Dean in any capacity. And on top of all this, Sam gets so jealous at times that Dean has no doubt that they have some serious trust issues as well.

Something keeps going off track between them and he doesn’t know how to get it right. He tries to cover it all with over the top confidence, but Sam is not exactly the easiest person to fool. They both know these problems are Dean’s fault. He’s dragging Sam back, away from a normal life. Sam could be happy, yet here he is, struggling with him. They should… they should think this through. Find a solution that suits them both. Dean could stay at Benny’s place or at a motel for a few days and they could catch a break from each other, think it over with clear heads.

_come home_

He texts Sam, staring listlessly at the old _X-files_ marathon he’s been watching ever since Sam left. Come to think of it, it must have been, what, five hours? Six? Hell, it shouldn’t take that long to come back from a jog. Where did Sam go?

**_didnt know there was a curfew_ **

Is the message that comes back half an hour later. Dean frowns at it, blood pressure rising fast. That doesn’t sound like Sam. Whenever Dean - well, whenever he has an episode and Sam notices, he is sweet and attentive the whole day, almost repentant. As though he inflicted the wounds with his own hands. He would never act like a prick. If he couldn’t come, he would have told Dean why. And he always uses proper punctuation. Something is wrong.

Dean rises to his feet, his instincts howling at him to run and drag Sam back home from wherever he is.

_where are you?_

**_wouldnt u like to know? find me if u can asshole_ **

Asshole? The gears in Dean’s brain screech to a halt, then start working again, turning double time. This isn’t Sam, can’t be. Someone else is using his phone. Did they steal it? Nah, not likely. Why would they text back, then? Sam went out for a run. Where could he end up going to? Eileen? No, she does not seem like the type to play such a game with Dean’s head. Where else...

“Son of a bitch.”

 

Dean has to pound on Ruby’s front door for a half a minute before it swings open to reveal her in nothing but a tank top and short shorts. She groans. “I thought it was the pizza.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know what -”

He has no time for this shit. Dean elbows her aside and barges in, through the hallway and straight into the living room, where he finds Sam sprawled on a sofa bed, chomping on orange segments and giggling to himself.

“Hey, you can’t just march in there.” Ruby protests, but it’s way too fucking late to stop him.

He runs over to Sam’s side, leaving dirty footprints on her carpet, and cups Sam’s chin with his good hand. “Sam!”

Sam boops him on the nose. “Dean, I’m not feeling too well.” He slurs through a grin, eyes rolling around without once focusing on anything.

Dean’s bruised knuckles crack as his fingers curl into a tight fist. He snarls. “What the fuck did you give him, bitch?”

Ruby sneers at him. “Don't get your panties in a twist, it's just weed.”

“Weed, my ass. Did you roofie him?”

“He ate some brownies, that's all. He didn’t know -”

“How many?”

She shrugs, swaying in place. She’s probably drunk too, if not something worse. Dean is a hairsbreadth away from strangling her on the spot. Abruptly, one of the doors opens behind them and an older guy comes out of the bathroom with a razor in hand. Tall with ratty, calculating eyes and sandy hair. He doesn’t have a shirt on. There are tattoos all over his arms and chest, skulls and some vague satanist sigils.

“You should know best. Big boy, big appetite.” He has the gall to smirk at Dean, wiggling his eyebrows and pushing his tongue into the inside of his cheek.

The muscles around Dean’s jaw tick. “I’m gonna say this only once.” He says, voice low and threatening. “I don’t know who you are, but you take one more look at him and I’ll slit your fucking throat with your own razor, you understand me?”

“Oh, I’m terrified.” The guy chuckles and raises his hands, wriggling his fingers. He is the only one who doesn’t seem inebriated out of the trio, and something about that unsettles Dean on the deepest levels. They have to get out of here before that creeper gets even a step closer to Sam in this state.

He hooks his arms under his brother’s armpits and hefts him up, practically lifting dead weight. “Come on, Sasquatch.” He groans. “Let’s get you home.”

 

As though this day wasn’t bad enough already, Sam has to be the type who comes down like the world is ending. Because of the mix of booze and weed those bastards fed him, as soon as the high leaves, he tosses and turns and sweats and cries until Dean brings him a cold cloth and drapes it over his forehead. The only reason why he discards the idea of a hospital is the speed at which Sam settles down after that.

“Mom…” Sam mumbles at one point, not long before midnight. “Mom, I have to meet… my friend, I can’t go... to sleep. My friend… is coming.”

If Dean has to stay up one more hour listening to this nonsense, he won’t talk to Sam for a week. “Sammy. It’s me, Dean.”

“Dean.” Sam grins, gaze dreamy and dumb from intoxication. “You’re here!”

“Yeah, you junkie.”

“What’s in me, Dean? Something in my blood, it’s…”

“Weed, buddy, a whole lotta weed.” Dean sighs and wipes the sweat from Sam’s brow. What a mess. “Blame your bottomless stomach.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“It is.” Sam sniffs. “I told her you hurt yourself.”

He did, didn’t he. “Mom?”

“Ruby.”

Dean can’t say he’s surprised. It still hurts, though. Feels like a betrayal. It was _his_ secret. He kept it for years, from Jody, from Cas, even from his brother. Then he let Sam see. And look where that got him, confiding in him, putting all his trust in the love they share - one of his most vulnerable points is bared to someone he hates to his core. What is he supposed to do now?

“I didn’t mean to.” Sam weeps, a single warm drop spilling from his right eye. “There’s something in my blood, it made me -”

“Shh. Not your fault, Sammy.” It really isn’t. The only person at fault is Dean. If he didn’t have this problem in the first place, everything would be fine. “Go to sleep.”

“Okay.” Sam readily agrees, eyes slipping closed. “Tell Mom my friend is coming. From beyond the trees.”

Dean shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “Alright.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

 

 

Of course, there’s nothing to smile about come morning. They sit across from each other at the tiny table they used this whole year, sharing a silence that for one doesn’t feel right. Sam nurses a terrible hangover, but his eyes are bright and lucid again, no trace of last night left. He doesn’t ask what happened. The worst he probably knows.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers when Dean starts picking at the scabs on his knuckles. His big hand reaches out and grips Dean’s fingers, the newly opened wound spilling blood on both of their skins.

Dean nods and watches the satisfying gathering of crimson between his bones. He can’t say it’s okay. Nothing is, nothing at all. Last night was more than enough proof that they need a breather. He knows Sam isn’t going to like it. But it doesn’t matter, they have to stay away from each other for a while, because this is ruining them. He bites his tongue to keep from talking and pulls his hand away.

Sam looks broken. He leaves his arm outstretched. “I swear I didn’t realise what she -”

“I know.”

“Then… are we okay?”

 _We’ve never been,_ Dean wishes to say, but that sounds too cruel to voice out loud. They are well aware how fucked up they are, no need to put it into words. “No.” He sighs. “This isn’t about last night.”

Sam’s exhale quivers. He grabs Dean’s hand again, desperate. “Dean, I - I know this is not what we expected when we decided to live here together, but… we, we try. Yes, we make mistakes, but who doesn't? And just - look, this is me, an idiot who can’t even taste it when my food is laced.” He swallows. “But I love you. I’m sorry, and I love you, and I’m asking you to give us some time. A second chance.”

Fuck, Dean has to go now, or he won’t be able to go through with it. “I called Benny while you were sleeping. I’m gonna crash at his tonight, alright? We need to think things over.”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

How could he break up with his own brother? No way, that’s how. He clears his throat and tries for his best ‘I’m the oldest, I'm always right’ voice. “You are better off without me, Sam.”

“No. Don't say that to me.” Sam’s eyes water. “Don’t you do that.”

“I have to go.” He says and stands, grabs the overnight duffel he placed on “his” bed when he got up today. He’s in the middle of pulling on his boots when Sam finally comes after him, pleading without words. Dean can’t look at him or he’s going to waver, he knows. “I’ll call you in a few days, okay?”

“You don’t have to go away. We can work things out together.”

Dean straightens up from his crouch, ready to go. “Be safe, Sammy.”

It’s every bit as expected as the puppy eyes that Dean finds himself slammed up against the wall, kissed within an inch of his life before he can even think about passing through the front door. “Three days.” Sam says into his mouth. “You get three days, then you’d better get your ass back here or I’ll hunt you down.”

Dean pushes him away, a hint of his usual cockiness curling his lips into a smirk. “Wouldn’t expect any less from you, little brother.”

 

 


	13. The crone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys try to make some progress. It has surprising results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter is up to par. I had a horrible week, the absolute worst, really, but at least I finished this and got to the point I wanted to reach. Have fun reading it! I'm excited to hear your thoughts after you reached the ending. :)

 

 

 

 _“Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig_  
_sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance_  
_climbed up through my conscious mind.”_

\- Neruda, Lost in the forest (part 1)

 

 

* * *

 

 

True to his word, Sam left him alone for three days. No calls, no texts, nothing. It must have been killing him, but Dean is beyond grateful he kept his distance, because they needed to cool down and clear their heads of this funk they’ve gotten into. This is the fourth night, though, and he has no doubt his phone would be ringing if he didn’t switch it off in the morning.

He tried to go up to Sam, honest. Watched his silhouette through the curtains, puttering around in the kitchen, and imagined how they would bicker over Sam’s bland cooking until his face would get all red and sulky. But then he realised Sam might not take his light jabs as jokes tonight, and the thought made him break out in cold sweat. Dean is no good at staying serious when he is nervous.

He drove around the block instead, parked Baby behind the rundown five-and-dime he visits whenever he wants to buy Sammy a gag gift. He sat there for twenty minutes, gripping the steering wheel, then scrambled out and went for a walk. Moving, focusing on the contract-release of his muscles and the rhythm of his body never fails to soothe his jitters. His feet drew him to the nearby park on instinct - something about that place always hooks him in. He ended up at the playground - deserted, this late at night - and wedged himself into a swing. Now, still sitting there, his thighs are starting to ache from the chains digging into them. Dammit, he’s way too old for this. He shifts his legs to get more comfortable, and something skitters away, nudged by his left foot. Dean frowns and picks it up.

It’s a lighter. A _working_ lighter, it turns out. What kind of a jerk litters a playground with stuff like this? What if a kid found it and worked out the mechanism? Fucking careless assholes. Dean leans his head against the cold chain of the swing and thumbs at the silver metal switch, grumbling to himself. The flame lights up, bright and searing. It’s yellow, with a blue edge just above the tip of his thumb. Yellow and blazing, like his father’s gaze was when Dean stumbled down that stairwell on the day of the fire. That’s another snapshot of memory he recovered in the past year, his father sitting slumped against the wall, his mother’s hair fisted in his hand, blood dripping from the ceiling. Dean doesn’t know if he was alive at that point or not, but he remembers his eyes, consumed by the yellow-orange of the fire, locked on him and shining with the remains of a deranged laugh, a demon laugh. He didn’t tell Sammy. Not sure he could, even if he wanted to. But this flame… it’s just like his memory, the right shade and form.

He could touch it. Just slide his finger a little higher, dip it into that burst of colour. The light would lick around his skin, enfold it, make saltwater spill from the corners of his eyes. He could burn himself, make his flesh tender and sore, have that pleasure-relief run through his body for weeks without having to sneak around Sam’s back. He could burn himself. He could. He hasn't done that before. It seems scary, but the relief it promises makes Dean's saliva gather in his mouth. He has been clean for so long before punching that wall, he craves it more than anything tonight. But it scares him too, that Sam might have been right. About him needing therapy again. He doesn't want to be the person they have to lock away because he can't control his craving for destruction.

To abate his yearning, he tries to do Sam’s pressure-thing for himself, pushes at his chest and tries to find the right spot, but it doesn't work, he got used to the exact span of Sam's hand and his own does nothing to satisfy the yawning gap inside.

“Fuck.” He curses and drops the lighter before anything stupid happens. This isn’t what he came here for. He tucks his hands into his pockets, fisted and clammy, and presses his forehead harder against the chain, blows out a mouthful of air.

“Don’t blame me if your dinner gets cold.” Dean hears from the side and his head snaps up to find Sam trudging through the slightly unkempt bushes behind the monkey bars.

“How did you find me?” He asks when Sam comes to a stop in front of him.

Sam shrugs, smiling. “I know you.”

Dean nods. He could have found Sam too. If the tables were turned and Sam didn’t wanna come home, he would have holed up in the library, probably. And there’s this bakery he always brings pastries from, that would have been Dean’s second choice.

They fall silent for a while. Where to start? Dean’s not even sure if Sam still wants him after thinking it over. There are some things Dean worked out regardless of how Sam thinks of him, but he… he has to know how bad it is.

“Did I ruin your life?” He asks quietly, surprising even himself by voicing the thought that’s always there in the back of his mind. This isn’t the question he wanted to say, but it will do.

Sam’s eyebrows climb towards his hairline. “Are you kidding? You are the best thing in it.” He spreads his arms wide in a helpless gesture. “I love your stupid ass.”

A lopsided smile spreads over Dean’s lips. “Only my ass?”

Sam’s posture relaxes. “I guess you have some other decent parts I can put up with.” He smiles back.

The early spring breeze picks up and pushes the other swing into motion. It creaks ominously, loud in the quiet, empty park, and Dean watches it move back and forth. Better to look at that than Sam’s expectant face. He’s not about to admit it, but sitting here like a sad child while Sam’s standing a few steps away as his Godzilla-sized self makes him feel inferior. He’s not going to stand up though, because that would come off as needy or repentant and Dean is neither. Neither, got it?

But Sam seems to have no such qualms. He comes closer, crouches in front of Dean and braces his forearms on Dean’s knees, sends a tingling feeling up Dean’s legs to his heart. He looks up through his bangs, sincere and hopeful. “I quit.”

Dean extracts his hands from his pockets to grab onto the chains. Not for anything else, just for that. Sam’s weight makes the swing unstable. “About damn time.”

“Lucas didn’t take it too well, but… he can kick the bucket for all I care.”

“Thought you were best buddies or something.” Dean can’t help making a snide remark about it. He’s an asshole.

Sam sighs. His index finger picks at the inseam of Dean’s jeans, which is really annoying, so Dean lets his right hand fall and capture that finger. In his usual touchy-feely way, Sam takes that as a cue to start holding hands. Dean would pull away, but he is too tired to deal with the kicked puppy look that would come his way.

“I’m sorry I was such a jerk about you giving me advice.” Sam tells him, always the first to come out and say shit that needs to be said between them. “I play the model student, go through the motions, but deep down… I don’t think I fit in. And I tried to remedy that, you know, tried to be better, prove I’m an independent grown up at all costs, and find my place through that. But the only person I click with - the only one who really understands me is still you.”

The insecure beast inside Dean’s belly settles down for a nap. “That’s ‘cause you’re a freak.”

Sam laughs. “Gee, thanks.”

“Well, I’m a freak, too. I’m right there with you, all the way.” Dean flashes a small smile, brushes his thumb over Sam’s pulse point. (Alright, so he _is_ holding hands with his brother. But it doesn’t count, it’s not like he started it.) “I think I’ll give that shrink a call. The one you picked out for me.”

That’s one of the things he decided somewhere between drowning his brain cells in alcohol and scarfing down Benny’s stale cereal. Relationships require compromises, Jody used to tell him whenever he asked if she minded all the scrap metal littered around the yard. So Dean’s doing his end of the deal.

“Really?” Sam smiles bright enough to give the sun a run for its money.

The sight of his elation makes Dean falter. He was going to fake indifference, pretend these decisions had been easy. But goddamnit, Sam has to go and ruin his bravado with his stupid grin and his stupid hand - now how could Dean tell him his other plan? He has been saying the exact opposite ever since middle school, how can he explain the change of mind? He has been thinking about this for a long time, but in secret. Then he checked out some websites in the last three days, and now he kinda wants it, actually, but if Sam realises he does, he is going to dig in and try helping him, and that’s the last thing Dean needs. It would be far too embarrassing. Sammy, the Stanford whizz-kid helping him with _that_ … Nope, let’s not.

“And uh, I have an idea. It’s dumb, but, uh… I don’t know.” Great job. In case Sam had any doubt that this is important for him, now he sure doesn’t.

Sam arches a playful eyebrow. “Eloquent.”

Dean clears his throat. If he lowers his voice and makes it all gruff, he can still trick Sam into thinking this is just another chore he grudgingly completes. Right? “I’ll apply to a community college.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I looked it up. Some of the stuff they teach could come in handy if I wanna take a break from banging rich people’s toys back together.” Sam still looks stunned and confused, so he glances away and adds “And I’m tired of you whining about your exams. When I have my own you won’t get out of doing the dishes.”

“So… You will do this just to make me do my share of the housework?”

Dean shrugs. It can’t be _that_ much of a far-fetched concept, him getting a degree. He just doesn’t want Sam to think he is a whole new person. He is not. He still hates studying, complying to stuck-up teachers’ whims. But he can see the draw in college life and, well, degrees do have their advantages. He loves cars. But… he is beginning to think he can try other stuff as well.

“I’m not going to talk you out of it if that's what you are waiting for.” Sam smiles, sweeps in for a kiss that Dean _does not_ welcome like a starving man, then stands up and groans. “Jesus, my legs are going to fall off. Can we continue this back home, or do you want to brood here a little longer?”

The knot in his chest loosening, Dean follows his suit and fishes their apartment keys out of Sam’s jacket pocket. “Depends on what you made for dinner. Might have to take a detour if we’re having a veggie day again.”

Sam narrows his eyes at him. “Bite me.”

Dean laughs. They might be over the worst of it, now that these issues are out of the way. This might just end well for once. “Don’t mind if I do.”

 

* * *

 

A month after their last fight - well, if you can call something without yelling and broken plates a fight - Sam is still amazed that Dean developed a subtle interest in college. It’s an unexpected decision, but if it means he is a tad bit closer to realise his own potential, Sam is all for it. He hopes therapy will help him with that too. Dean’s relationship with Missouri isn’t out of that rocky first period yet, but Sam trusts that woman to handle Dean’s shit better than the other therapists he talked to. The fact that Dean has become chipper in the last week may just be the first sign of progress. Or he’s just enjoying the perks of Sam’s jobless status, who knows?

Sam has to admit some of them truly are awesome. For example, sex on a weekday afternoon. By daylight. Without a single reason to hurry.

“Rematch tomorrow. I dare you.” Dean mutters and noses at Sam’s bare stomach, throwing his pants in the vague direction of the bathroom.

He has this thing about giving head where he pretends he doesn’t like it, because he thinks that’s too gay. (Yeah, right. Being in a monogamous relationship with another guy is proof of how straight he is.) He puts up a fairly good act - it managed to fool Sam the first few times, but the hidden delight underneath Dean’s facade showed through clear as day after that. Now it’s just as amusing as his faux-indignance when Sam is in one of his moods and wants to shower him in affection.

“You rigged that game, I know.” Dean mumbles into his hip, right on cue. Never mind that he lost _intentionally_ as soon as Sam said the prize is a blowjob. Dean is an excellent Xbox player, he very much wanted this.

“Just admit it, I beat you.” Sam smiles and sinks into the pillows, thoroughly enjoying his winnings. The sun filters through the curtains as a soft, orange collection of rays, and as he closes his eyes, it feels like a caress on his skin. His phone beeps on the bedside table, but he pays it to no mind, just rolls up into Dean’s touch and hums his encouragement. Dean chuckles and does wicked things with his tongue Sam hasn’t yet figured out how to handle without falling apart. Nothing better than a lazy blowjob and a happy boyfriend. How nice it would be if Sam could just bottle moments like this and save them for later to douse his soul in this cosy sensation. He could stay like this forever, he thinks. Then the phone beeps again.

 _Fucking A,_ Sam fumes and reaches out to silence it, but his eyes catch a glimpse of the latest message and his blood runs cold.

**_I've been waiting for you for a long long time. Come on, Sam. You have to admit, you can feel it, right?_ **

Lucas. The guy can’t take no for an answer, it seems. Ever since Sam quit his job, he and Ruby have been harassing him with unsettling texts and calls. Sam had to block him on Facebook. To top that off, Ruby seems to have declared him as personal enemy No.2 after Sam confronted her for what happened during the night she got him high without his consent. Why the hell can’t they leave him alone? He made a mistake, alright, but it’s not like the shop crumbles without his part-time work. Can’t they all go on and live their own lives in peace? Are they inflicting some petty revenge because he broke their ties, is that it?

“Wanna go further, Sammy.” Dean groans, oblivious, and starts making his way up to Sam’s chest and neck.

Sam panics and throws the phone back on the table, smiling back awkwardly when Dean grins at him. The amulet tickles his sternum where it dangles from Dean’s neck as they kiss, and he tries to narrow his attention to that, steer it away from Lucas and his creepy entourage. When Dean turns him over and starts on painting a trail of kisses down his back, Sam’s stomach fills with burning heat. God, he knows where this is going. His blood rushes to his cheeks, fills them with excited warmth. They rarely ever do it this way. Dean is thick and heavy, and he is afraid, always so afraid of hurting that he can’t let go properly unless Sam sits on top. But not today, oh no. And despite Lucas, despite the worry nagging at Sam’s soul, he starts to loosen up again, muscles unknotting from their tension as Dean’s lips descend along his spine.

Then another text comes. And another.

“Someone’s popular today…” Dean snickers and bites into the globe of Sam’s ass.

Sam jerks, riled up more than necessary, but those texts, those fucking texts keep coming, creepy messages, what if he is sending them right from the doorstep? What if he has a way of looking through their window, sees them like this, shifts his attention to the prettier one and starts stalking Dean? What if he hid microphones in here somehow?

Dean pauses in the process of lapping at the dimples above Sam’s ass, does a quick hands-on assessment of the frontal situation, then scoffs. “Am I boring you?”

“No.” Sam denies frantically, turning back around. He regrets it a second later - now his softening cock is on full display, flopping around, useless.

Dean seems genuinely upset about it, almost to the point of despondency. “Then what's up? ‘Cause you sure aren’t.”

Sam lets out a weak laugh. “Just an assignment I’m worried about.” The phone chimes again and his heart seizes from unease. He gulps.

Of course, Dean picks up on it instantly. “Bull.” He grumbles. “Flimsiest excuse if I ever heard one.”

“Don’t -” Sam starts, but it’s already too late, Dean’s agile body swings to the side and snatches up the offending device that keeps buzzing and beeping in his hand. He lowers himself back down and props the phone up on Sam’s chest, frown lines deepening as the seconds tick by.

Sam combs through his short hair. The tips of it turn golden in the afternoon light, a marvellous colour to compliment his stormy green eyes. If only his lips weren’t pressing together into a deep pink testament of fury.

“I didn’t want you to worry.” He admits, tapping the place where Dean’s short sideburn disappears into stubble.

Dean tosses the phone on the other side of the bed and closes his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Tell me not to kill him. Tell me or I swear to God -”

“Don’t kill him.”

“Alright. You’re getting a new number.” Dean declares and drops his hands to glower down at Sam. “Anything else I should know about?

Sam shakes his head. What can they do anyway, short of moving to the other side of the city? They can’t call the police. Cops sniffing around their stuff could lead to a reveal much more dangerous than a pissed off tattoo artist could ever be. Even if he has a whole bunch of connections in the shady underworld. Which Sam hopes he doesn’t. He read that if you don’t give your stalker any fodder to fuel their obsession, they will stop after a while. That’s how it’s going to go down, he tells himself. He is going to avoid places where he can bump into Ruby or his ex-boss and they will forget this mishap ever happened.

 

Except, the website he read was wrong. The stalking only intensifies when he tries to hide from it. They leave him unwanted gifts on the doormat, notes in the mailbox, send messages to him via his schoolmates. It gets out of hand real fast. One afternoon Sam goes out to the library and comes back shaking and out of breath from the running he had to endure to get away from an unknown guy following him. Dean doesn't know more than half of it, which is probably for the best.

The whole thing explodes one day in early May, not long after Sam’s nineteenth birthday. He is not in the best of moods as it is - Dean asked him out to an actual restaurant (not a diner) and he had to say no because by now he grew afraid of getting out of the house after nightfall. They go grocery shopping instead, because Dean’s wine-and-dine plan was mostly just a clever attempt to avoid the trip to the supermarket. They end up in different aisles - Sam has lost Dean somewhere around the snack rows, and he is hovering beside the dairy products, trying to shudder off the chill from the freezers, when someone pats his shoulder.

Expecting his brother, Sam holds out a yoghurt. “Dude, will you eat some fruit if -” His sentence dies halfway out of his throat. That's not Dean. It’s Lucas.

“Sam! Long time no see. Come, give me a hug.” Lucas smirks at him, unabashedly cornering him against a freezer. “I know you missed my sublime company.”

Sam has to swallow twice to make his throat work. His free hand fumbles behind him for something to hold onto, grabs the sticky metal of the cart. With Lucas’ arms spread the way they are, it feels like being locked into a cage that’s meant to hold only one person. Sam’s mouth goes dry. “Leave me alone.”

Lucas tuts at him. “Is this any way to talk to a friend?” He leans closer. The tobacco smell of his breath wafts over Sam’s face and makes him flinch. “If only you stopped resisting, we could be like peas in a pod. Just think about it, Sam. I would be a better bunkmate than that trigger-happy boyfriend of yours.”

Even though Sam is at least three inches taller than the guy, he finds himself looking _up_ into maliciously twinkling eyes. His pulse speeds up. He’s so creeped out that he’s hunched over like a kid wanting to disappear from the face of Earth. Lucas’ eyes are bloodshot. Shit, is he on some harder stuff? Does he get violent?

Sam is about to do something embarrassing like sucker punching him and making a run for it, when a leather-clad forearm pushes between his chest and Lucas’.

“Howdy?” Dean grins - well, snarls, actually - and slots himself between the two of them, completely unfazed by how they are crowding each other in like a bunch of nutjobs. It must be a comical sight for anyone who wanders by.

“Ah. Speak of the devil.” Lucas comments, then laughs as though he has just shared an inside joke with himself.

Dean raises his right fist - holding a chocolate bar and a ten-inch chef knife. It’s still in its plastic holder, but the threat is evident in the gesture as Dean presses it to Lucas’ throat with a predatory hiss. “You have ten seconds to get your mug out of my sight or I’m calling the cops.”

It’s a bluff, but Lucas has no way of knowing that they can’t possibly involve the police in their business. This has to work. This has to scare him away for tonight.

“Don’t rush your answer, Sam.” Lucas smiles at him after a nerve-wracking staredown and winks, stepping back. Thank God. He’s retreating. “I’ll be around for that yes you'll give me.”

 

The ride back home is tense and uncomfortable. Sam doesn’t need to hear the ‘I told you’ Dean is keeping himself from saying, it’s expressed in every glance they shoot each other until the car rolls into the underground parking lot Dean hates. They didn’t even get the food in their hurry to get away from the shop. This can’t go on like this anymore. They spent enough of their childhood living in fear, not again. Never again.

“I don’t feel safe here anymore.” Sam admits quietly, staring at his lap. From the corner of his eye, he sees Dean’s nod, but no reply comes. Changing their lives because of this man feels like a failure. Sam’s failure, him letting Dean down. He has to go for it, though, because there doesn’t seem to be any other sensible solution and they can’t let this drive a rift between them. “I want to move away.”

He’s banking on a long argument, something about not getting another deal like the one they have, of Sam being a selfish wuss, but Dean just looks at him, simple as that, and closes his eyes. “Okay. But don’t bitch at me if you have to get up earlier.”

“Deal.” Sam grins, knows Dean hears it even if he doesn't look, and that is that. They are going to move out.

 

They find a suitable place twice as far from the university as their current flat is. It’s completely out of reach for Lucas and his associates, on the top floor of an apartment building filled with retired professors and middle-class families. With two bedrooms and a couch that fits Sam stretched out it’s a dream compared to the alternatives. Dean grits his teeth and accompanies Sam to visit the neighbours, devouring every welcome snack they receive and snickering behind his hand whenever someone pinches Sam’s cheeks and calls him a ‘sweet boy’. They don’t meet a single student during their visit - it must be too far from the campus for their lazy asses. It’s amazing, nothing like what they are going to leave behind. Sam is begging Dean to choose this one even before they exit the stairwell.

The problem is: the place is only available from July, but their rent on their current flat is up by June. There’s a fortnight long gap they have to make arrangements for. Going home to Sioux Falls would be the obvious choice, while their stuff is held in a storage unit, but Sam has an idea. A little bit crazy one, but an idea nonetheless.

“I think we should go back to Kansas.” He tells Dean, stuck in traffic during a surprise rainstorm. “Check out the places we have lived in.”

Dean gives another driver the bird, only halfway listening. “What? Why would we?”

Sam puts a hand on Dean’s thigh. It makes him jump and bristle - gloomy weather and a forced standstill with his Baby makes Dean sensitive and snappish. What a diva. “Because pretending those times never happened doesn’t make it so. I think it would do both of us some good if we built new memories to rewrite the old ones.”

Dean’s leg jiggles under his palm. He seems ready to honk at the dumbass Range Rover that’s trying to cut into their lane. “You mean we should go back to that group home in Kansas City where they made me clean the entire dorm?”

“I mean every place.”

Dean gulps. “Even…?”

“Every single one.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? ‘Cause that sounds like torture to me.”

“It's called facing your fears.”

“New age bullshit crap.”

“Bullshit crap?” Sam tries to bite back his smile, but it’s not very successful. The corner of Dean’s lips twitch. He knows he is ridiculous, but wouldn’t change a damn thing about it, the bastard. How lucky he is Sam likes him this way. “Think of it as a road trip.”

“Road trips should be fun.”

“It will be fun.” Sam scoots all the way over to him, cajoling. “Come on. You, me, Baby… Greasy fast food. A room with a nice, big tub. Magic fingers, if you are good...”

The row of cars stops again. Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of Black Sabbath’s Iron Man. There are beads of sweat pooling in the dip of his collarbone. His face splits into a smile. _“Now_ we are talking.”

 

* * *

 

Most of the time Dean puts special effort into not thinking of his past. It’s basic self-preservation. One half of his childhood is pure crap, the other is murky darkness. Not much to marvel about. He has some good memories sprinkled in there too, but they are scarce and most of them are related to Sam one way or another. He doesn’t want to go back and relive any of them. Why would he?

The only time it even came up was on the first anniversary of their adoption. Jody was feeling under the weather, caught a bug or something, and Dean had the crazy notion in his mind that it was his doing. Maybe he brought it home from school or something. So, he spent the entire day trying to comfort her, going as far as curling up next to her on the couch and letting her arms pull him into an embrace. She had a fever - probably the reason why she started talking about the blank spots in his past.

“I don’t know where their grave is. It got lost somewhere in your records.” She said, stroking his back. “If I knew, I would tell her that I’m taking care of her little angels. I would tell her how well you are doing.”

Dean doesn’t think he is anything even remotely close to an angel. And, after all the work they have done with Cas when he was a teenager, he knows both his father and his mother would have agreed with him. It’s just something Jody does, loving them so deeply she is being biased, but that’s a soothing thing to believe in, and as long as Dean doesn’t let the truth of his memories flood his mind, he can maintain that belief to some extent. The belief that he is a good man.

Going back to Kansas is going to stir the bad things up again, he has no doubt. Yet, he’s doing it, because he is in love and this is Sam's little summer project. He's doing research, searching for old institutes, tracking people down, and recites his findings at any random time, in the car, at dinner, when they shower together. Dean nods along indulgently, but his insides get all queasy at the mere mention of the state. He has a bad feeling about this.

On their way there, they stop one last time before Lawrence and Kansas City, because Sam wants to get there in the morning and Dean is nothing if not a caterer to all the boy’s needs. They get a motel room - with one king this time, screw the look the clerk gives them - and eat Chinese take-out, chortling at a movie they watch on Sam’s laptop. Dean could almost forget where they are headed.

He wakes Sam up that night after three hours of insomnia - kisses awareness back into his body until tanned muscles ripple and shift to give him space and permission. Sam doesn't open his eyes, but takes Dean's hand and presses it flat over the minute curve of his belly, calm. Dean slides into place in silence, finds the spot where Sam’s thighs squeeze together the tightest, uses that crease because he has no patience left for anything more. He fits himself flush against Sam's back in silence, chases his bliss in silence, coats Sam’s legs slippery in silence. No noises. He doesn't know if it counts as a setback or not - but this close to Demon-ville, his walls are up high and quake from fear. He's not supposed to be here. The day he left this living hell, he swore never to come back if he can help it. He can’t, though, can he? What Sammy wants, he gets.

“Don't do this for me.” Sam mumbles, reading his mind. “Do it for yourself or go home. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Big talk. You can't navigate to save your life. I need to stay around so that you don’t get lost.” Damn right. The only reason why he stays.

Sam sighs, but leaves it, too sleep-loose to argue. Lost in thought and swamped by the joy-rush of hormones, Dean dozes off, the pictures of dorm beds and yelling adults flashing through his mind. A freaking nightmare as soon as he closes his eyes. He snorts back to alertness a minute later when Sam kicks his shin with his ice-cold foot.

“Dude, you gonna leave me hanging?”

Oh. Oh, right. Dean blushes, glad that Sam has his back to him and can’t see his face right now. “Just taking my time.”

“Take it faster.” Sam fires back and turns around to show what exactly he’s waiting for.

Dean doesn’t have much chance to worry about tomorrow after that.

 

* * *

 

 

Kansas City is the dusty dump it always used to be in Dean’s mind, nothing much to look at. The first thing on their agenda is breakfast with Donna, which is basically a love-fest between her and Sammy while Dean stands by the sidelines looking after the toddlers who are apparently hers and Doug’s. The whole meeting makes him squeamish, partly out of shame. The only thing he likes about his old self is how strong he was for a brat his age. Everything else - the delusions, juvie, all the mouthing back and fighting he did - he is ashamed of to a degree he doesn’t want to admit even to himself. Sam deserved better. Deserves better. Someone nice and good, someone who could have gotten them out of the system faster than six miserable years.

Donna doesn’t mention any of the bad things, though, she reminisces about the old days as if they weren’t a pain in her ass the entire time she had to handle their case. Sam goes along with it easily, sips his tea and brings up stories he and Dean have never talked about before. It pushes Dean out of kilter, because he thought there’s nothing he didn’t know about his brother, yet the things Sam talks about are just as new to him as they are to Donna. He’s hit by the heady realisation that there’s still more, more to discover, understand and embrace. It’s a wonderful eyeopener.

Another wonderful thing is the fact that they should have filed a written request to have access to their records, which renders their plan of getting the info out of Donna bootless. Riding the wave of this news, Dean gleefully suggests they head home to Sioux Falls. Sam hits his shoulder for it, Dean curses, the toddlers scream in delight and Donna buries her face in her hand, pointing at the swear jar on the counter. All in all, it’s a fitting ending for their weirdass breakfast.

Of course, Dean doesn’t get to go home after that. Sam has a gazillion of places he wants to visit, written down from memory and hours spent browsing Google Maps for hidden treasures in the city. They play connect the dots all day, eat ice cream at a parlour they didn’t have the money to visit as kids, talk to an old groundskeeper Sam used to be afraid of and find a bench near Garth’s old place Dean carved their initials into. They have fun.

Right until Sam leads them back _there._

“No.” Dean says when they enter Lawrence and round the corner of the street the Peters family used to live in. He parks the Impala right there, along the curb, not willing to make the distance any smaller than it already is. What an idiot he was for agreeing to this! He can't go any closer, no fucking way.

Sam has the nerve to take his hand when Baby’s purring dies down. “You can’t live in fear of this house all your life, Dean.”

He has no right to say something like that. He doesn’t _know._ Dean still doesn’t remember much from their lives _before,_ but this, he does. Not all of it, alright, sometimes he went away and left his body behind to deal with what it had to, but almost everything is crystal clear in his recollections. It’s enough load for him, thanks. Reliving the memories would just make it worse. His bones are aching with phantom pain at the mere thought, his chest is filled with a million needles, and the world is going black, the door of hell is closing…

“Hey!” Sam pinches his elbow. The shadows clear away. “Don’t panic. It’s safe. They don’t live here anymore.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Sam purses his lips. “I checked. His wife moved states years ago, after he died in prison. His fellow inmates - you know, they aren’t fond of his kind in there. It wasn’t pretty.”

Dean nods, blows out a breath. Good riddance. He doesn’t care about karma, he hopes that guy suffered. Really, really hopes he did.

Sam’s hand tugs on his fingers, impatient. “Come on. We will just take a walk down the street and back. Nothing else, I promise.”

Screw you, Alastair Peters. Let’s do this. Dean is not a fucking coward, he is not scared of dead men and their dead memories, if he wants to walk down a random suburban street, he’s gonna do just that. Face hardening, he forces his locked-down muscles to work and climbs out of the car. When he reaches the sidewalk, Sam takes his hand again.

“I don’t need a chaperone.” Dean snaps and wrenches himself away, rude enough to feel a little guilty. Sam raises his hands and apologizes, but stays only one step behind as they approach the house at a snail’s pace. Three fences away, Dean closes his eyes for a brief moment, squares his shoulders, then marches straight up to the front yard he had to be dragged through countless times in the past.

The house looks inconspicuous, normal - it got a new paint job, some flowers on the windowsills, pinwheels close to the front door. There's a calico cat basking in the sunlight on the front porch. It’s a pleasant place, significantly different from the looming mansion Dean constructed in his mind. There’s nothing harmful in sight. _He is dead,_ Dean tells himself again and exhales huge lungfuls of air, letting it go. He feels empowered, standing here - even if that bastard crawled out of his grave right now, he could shove him back there and burn his remains. He’s not a kid anymore. He will not be forced into a damp cellar again.

“No big deal.” He mumbles, perhaps to firm his own confidence, and touches a honey brown picket in the fence. The ground doesn’t open up under him. The birds keep singing on the trees that line the sidewalk, the air is sunset-warm and clear around him, a car rumbles lazily in the distance. It’s okay. Nothing hurtful could touch him here anymore. He’s fine.

Well, no, actually - “I’m hungry.” Dean announces, grinning. Sam jumps, but recovers quickly, and doesn’t talk about the house again that day even when Dean shovels a ridiculous amount of pie down his throat to wipe the slightly manic smile from his own face.

 

They spend the next few days in a similar manner. Exploring Kansas City and the agglomeration, parts they have never been in before and others they discovered between moving from foster to foster. Then, at the end of each day, they go back to Alastair’s old house and Dean spends a few minutes walking down the street and coaxing the calico into a petting. It’s kinda weird, this exposure-therapy or whatever Sam is trying to use on him, but Dean has to give it to him, it’s working. Over the years, the picture of this house his brain conjured up became less of a memory and more of a symbol for everything evil in the world. The original image distorted and darkened to fit the feelings he attached to it, then became a knob of shadow inside him he couldn’t get rid of. But replacing _that_ picture with this is like undoing a knot and feeling it loosen in his chest. It’s an incredibly freeing sensation.

It’s on the fourth day that Sam finishes a call with a woman who might have been their first temporary foster and says “She knew the first orphanage we’ve been sent to.”

Dean can’t say he’s excited, but Sam is hyped enough for the both of them, so off they go. Orphanages aren’t impressive in class or style, they are in regular or slightly worse conditions and have nothing distinctive that would make them stand out from their surroundings. In Dean’s opinion, these buildings suit the government even better than freshly built establishments - if people aren’t smacked in the face with a giant sign that the poor strays are living there, everyone can go forget that there are misfortunate kids all over the country who would need the support more than the NRA. That’s just life. He’s not upset about it, but he is not interested in being reminded that things haven’t changed for the better in the past nine years.

The house under the address Sam scribbled down looks rather old, but it’s still in use as some sort of nursery school, because there are toddlers playing tag outside in the accompanying yard. They aren't let in at first, which Dean marks as a sign of a good staff - if two fully grown strangers could just waltz in there and root around the kids’ stuff, it would be quite alarming. He has an ace up his sleeve, though, the orphan card, and he shamelessly uses it (and his flirting skills) to charm their way inside and make Sam happy. They are told to find someone called Adrienne or Adel or something (he got the intel, it’s Sam’s duty to memorize it, okay?), because she is the only woman here who used to work at this place back when it was functioning as an orphanage.

A perky redhead leads them to a small room filled with children’s toys and puzzle play mats. There are some matchbox cars too, which reminds Dean of the old Baby he used to own and makes him frown. Nothing else strikes him as familiar, but what’s new. He might have just forgotten. There’s a faded clown painting on the right wall, its unnatural grin forever frozen there, and Dean has no idea who put it there, but it was a complete moron if he thought the kids would like it. Also, that thing explains a thing or two.

“Found the reason for your clown phobia, didn’t we?” He nudges Sam’s shoulder, thinking of their first… well, the first time they went out together and Dean thought about things no brother should have. It's a fond memory. Sam blanches and keeps his eyes on the image until the kind (and sexy) nurse begins introducing them to the crone nesting in a comfy-looking armchair in the corner. She doesn’t seem to be a day younger than seventy, but her eyes are sharp and none of her joints creak as she rises from her seat to greet them. Dean holds her gaze and sees something in there - not quite recognition, more like that tip-of-the-tongue sensation, if it makes any sense. When you _know_ something, but you can’t recall what it is. He sees that blink of confusion in her eyes. It makes him uneasy under her scrutinization.

“Boys, this is Aunt Addie.” Lovely redhead chirps. “Addie, this is Dean Winchester and his brother -”

The old crow gasps. “Sam Wesson?”

She croaks and grips the young girl’s elbow to keep herself upright, gaping up at them in shock. The laughter of the efflorescing clown on the wall seems to echo in the bewildered silence that follows. Redhead makes an apologetic face. Is this something usual, something that happened before? Random bursts of names coming from the woman’s mouth? Dean frowns at Sam, gets a confused shrug. She stares at them as though they are ghosts of a long-forgotten life. Sam Wesson. Wesson. What is it about this name? This is the first time Dean hears it used for anything but the guns. What. The. Hell.

 


	14. The blue bird and his broken wing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I think this is going to hurt, so please heed the warnings. Most of them apply.
> 
> You may notice that I also added the final chapter count, though there's still a slim chance that I'll have to alter it. (It depends on how long my next two chapters are going to be.)

 

 

 _"As if suddenly the roots I had left behind_  
_cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood--  
_ _and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent."_

\- Neruda, Lost in the forest (part 2)

 

* * *

 

 

After she recovered from her shock, that crazy old woman told them a complete tale about a pair of scared children and the things she had done just to keep them together. Convincing her coworkers to help, seeking out shady connections she made in her younger years, forging Sam’s birth certificate, making calls to ensure the next place expected siblings instead of a single child and altering their data in the orphanage’s system.

“Most of it was on paper.” She said, wringing her hands. “Not every care home had computers back in those days.”

That was all she was able to get out before she burst out crying about how little people cared about orphans, how nobody ever had the inclination to check with the police, how frighteningly easy it was. That’s the only part of her story Dean believes. People not giving a fuck about unfortunate kids is basically a part of the law of this modern jungle. The other stuff - things like a miraculous instant bond between boys who had never seen each other before - sounds like absolute bullshit to him. She looks old enough to have known Uncle Abe in person, her memory can’t be all that sharp regarding things that happened fifteen years ago. She is most likely senile and has seen far too many suffering children over the years to tell them apart from each other. The stories she heard, the tragedies she saw must have blended together into elaborate fairy tales of darkness and magical interventions. The whole thing gives Dean a very, very wrong vibe.

Sam is a little naiver about it. Still so ready to believe shit that might give him answers, like he used to believe their fosters bought him trainers for football practice when it was actually Dean who stole them for him. And believing in this absurdity means he has been freaking out ever since Dean dragged him away from that place (and that insane, disturbed woman) and took them back to their room.

It’s getting late now. All the primetime shows on TV are reaching the end of their episodes and Dean isn’t in dire need of entertainment given the day they had, so he switches it off and settles down for the night. It's the middle of June, but he has his thin blanket pulled up to his chin. Being locked into a cellar as a kid probably didn’t help developing a healthy perception of heat. But Sam is so amazingly warm, Dean could sleep like a rock with those octopus-arms around him. If only Sam wasn’t over there by the window, dead-set on pacing a hole into the threadbare carpet.

“I can’t remember anything!” He bursts out in frustration, pulling at his too-long hair. Honestly, if he gave Dean five minutes with some clippers… “I would know if I had a different name before, right?”

Dean turns face down and snuggles into his pillow with a content smile. He’s surprising even himself by how chill he is about this, but he is sure there’s nothing to worry about. He knows it in his core that he has a brother, he knows Sam is his fix point, has been his North Star all his life. There’s nothing to question about it. Whatever that woman says, whatever she knows, Dean doesn’t care because it won’t change a single thing.

Sam comes over to the bed, his footsteps heavy and troubled. His gaze prickles at the back of Dean’s head. “Do you think it's true?”

“Sammy… That old hag is halfway to her grave. None of it makes any sense.”

“But what if it _is_ the truth?”

“It isn’t.”

Sam’s fingers tug at Dean’s shirt, insistent. Dean groans and turns back around, glaring up at Sam and his twisted halo of brown hair.

“There’s nothing to be scared of. We are going home first thing tomorrow.” He declares and closes his eyes. He’s not going to argue about this any longer. Sam is working himself up over nothing.

Half a minute later, the mattress dips beside him, springs creaking from the additional weight. Dean expects Sam to kill the lights and begin toss and turning, as he is wont to when he is upset. Instead, he feels his blanket lift, and not only a hand, but an entire torso slides under it. Dean’s eyes snap open. What? Sam wants to get frisky _now,_ of all times? Is he possessed or something? Not that Dean’s dick would complain, but he’s not all that up for the party. Is this how Sam wants to cope with the stress?

Sam doesn’t move, though. He stays there, halfway under the covers, face pressed into Dean’s ribcage and only the top of his floppy hair visible from Dean’s viewpoint. He’s hiding like a little boy during a thunderstorm. Is he really that distressed?

“Hey.” Dean calls out softly and begins sliding down until he’s lined up with his brother, covered by the thin fabric head to toe.

They breathe in each other’s exhales, toothpaste-damp puffs blowing back and forth. The air in their bundle gets heavy and warm like an oven, lit up orange-yellow from the outside by the bedside lamp. It’s kinda nostalgic, something out of their group home years when there was little comfort and no privacy beyond the blanket tents they always burrowed under. Sam is displaying puppy look version three (“puppy left alone in the dump”), which Dean tries to get rid of by making faces, waggling his eyebrows and being a general dork until Sam cracks up a little and relaxes his hold on the hem of Dean’s shirt by a notch.

“I want to find out the truth.” He says, staring at Dean with a hopeful glint in his eyes.

“How?” It’s a legit question. To have access to their records, they have to wait until their request is processed by the responsible office, which, knowing the speed of bureaucratic issues, might take as long as a month. Neither Jody, nor Donna can help them at the moment. However, if the crone is telling the truth (she doesn't), those records will be no help whatsoever. Going to the police might be the only way to get the truth immediately. But then they are going to hear about the fire, which means possible flashbacks and quite a few days of distress and nightmares. Awesome.

“I don’t know.” Sam mumbles.

God, the things Dean is willing to do for this kid… “Maybe, there’s something in the police records.”

Sam turns thoughtful. “But how do we get them?”

Dean shrugs, smirking. This gotta cheer his boy up. “We could go in as FBI agents.” He says with a conspirative lilt in his voice. Sam laughs, as per Dean’s intentions. Still, Dean pretends to be affronted and carries on with the game. “Don’t knock it, man. Ash taught me a thing or two, we can totally swing it.”

“We don’t have suits.”

“Details.”

Sam’s smile doesn’t disappear this time but turns fond and grateful. “We should just ask Doug a favour.”

“Yeah, but what if they still refuse? They won’t say no to the freakin’ FBI!”

“But we are not the FBI.”

“Alright, what’s plan B, then?”

“You could just charm the panties off the hot receptionist.”

“I like the way you’re thinking.” Dean grins and tugs the damn blanket off their heads at last. God bless the gust of fresh air that hits his face. “But I’m still saying we should be Agent Ford and Hamill.”

“Any way to convince you otherwise?”

Dean hums. Sam has stubble burn on his chin, a spot of redness that draws his gaze like a magnet. He knows how it got there and now he wants to make an identical one on the other side, kiss Sam stupid until he has nothing else on his mind but serenity. There’s not a thing on Earth they should worry about this week. They are on a vacation. Dean won’t let a doddery old nurse ruin it for them.

“I can think of a few.” He says and leans in to capture those pink lips.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, they are standing in front of the tiny police station in the centre of Lawrence. Sam is anxious as all hell, fiddling with his button-up and shifting his weight from foot to foot. He probably needs a hug for reassurance. Dean doesn’t trust himself to do it, though, because anything beyond platonic around here could lead to a disaster. He’s already analysing their interactions, tries to judge every move - are they close enough, but not too close? This trip is such a nuisance, they could be in Sioux Falls right now, eating Jody’s delicious cooking and playing footsie instead of doing small talk with a five-o. But Sam likes knowing things with unwavering certainty, so here they are, sweating through their shirts.

Dean bumps their shoulders together. (That’s brotherly enough, right? Shit, it has barely been eighteen months and he’s already forgetting how it _should_ be.) “Come on. We’ll just clear it up real quick.”

Sam gives him a raw look and starts walking. “I don't know which outcome would be better.” He mutters to his feet.

An exasperated sigh escapes Dean’s chest. “No plural. There’s only one possible outcome.”

Sam’s lips press into a thin line, but they are up at the front desk and he has no time to argue. Dean is polishing his best grin for the receptionist when he glances at her for the first time and the smile dies a quick death as a suppressed grimace. This isn’t going to be his field, oh no. She looks like freakin’ Clint Eastwood in a (presumably) female form, with a glare hard enough to break diamonds with and thick fingers adorned with a collection of rings that might actually be brass knuckles. Dean, wise enough to assess his meager chances to win this woman over, pushes Sam in her direction with a hand between his shoulder blades. If those floppy bangs don’t get through to her, then nothing will.

“I think she’s your type, Sammy.” He whispers through a stifled smirk.

Sam gives him a charring scowl that twists something hot and pleasant low in Dean’s stomach. Go figure.

Sam clears his throat and steps forward, polite boy scout voice at the ready. “Excuse me, we’re looking for Officer Spradlin.”

She stabs the paper she’s scribbling on. “Take a number.”  
They share a nonplussed look. The reception area is empty. A lone cop is scratching at the coffee stain on his shirt in the doorway of a small room on the right. “Uh - Sorry, but -”

“Sit down, son, and wait _in silence.”_ She frowns at them over the rim of her glasses. They back away to the cheap plastic chairs with wide eyes, though Dean can still hear her grumbling about “kids nowadays”.

They slump down next to each other. Dean blinks at Sam’s bright red face. “Did that just happen?”

“Shut up. I feel like I’m in detention.” Sam hisses.

Dean snorts. “I don’t think you ever got -”

 _“Gentlemen.”_ Rude receptionist snaps at them. Dean’s spine straightens on instinct. He almost _salutes,_ for Christ's sake. That woman must have been a drill sergeant in a past life.

“Geez.” He mutters.

“Yeah.”

While they are waiting, Sam occupies himself with lame ass Stanford emails, which Dean doesn’t find interesting at all, so he lets his eyes roam across what’s visible of the precinct house. When the guy with the stained shirt moves, he gets a view of what’s inside the room and the prettiest thing catches his eye: a blonde chick with shapely legs and a butt to bounce quarters off, a real knockout. She’s bending down to see something her fat colleague is pointing out on his computer, black uniform pants stretching just the right way. She has nothing on Sam, of course, but being committed doesn’t mean Dean can’t appreciate the sight. He’s not gay, and he still knows a sexy babe when he sees one, even though all he had a chance to watch in the past year is a flat chest and hairy calves. Sam gotta give him some leeway, he’s deprived of seeing soft curves like these. As the girl starts turning around, Dean prepares a good reel and a line about handcuffs, but they never make it to his lips, stopped by the sight of her face. She’s eerily familiar. Her tiny nose and doe eyes, those features…

Holy shit. Is she - “Jo?”

She goes stock still, mouth dropping open as recognition strikes. “Dean?” She exclaims. “Oh my God! Sam!”

What follows is a blur of awkward hugs and incredulous smiles, spiced with a pinch of blabbering. They haven’t seen each other in eleven years, it's not like it’s easy to start chatting again. Sam is blushing something fierce, which would be prime blackmail fodder (or porn fodder, depending on the context), but Dean is momentarily distracted by Jo’s starry-eyed wonder as she takes them in. (She must be overwhelmed by Dean’s looks, he knows.)

Or not. “Wow, you got big.” She whistles at Sam. That, he can forgive. Sam _is_ gorgeous after all.

Dean smirks, pitching his voice suggestive. “An understatement, sweetheart.”

Sam smacks him upside the head.

“You guys are just the same.” She laughs, face flushed. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for Officer What’s-his-name.”

“Spradlin.” Sam fills in reflexively. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Fighting monsters.” She shrugs, smiling with a hint of pride in her eyes.

“Joanna.” The strict receptionist calls out.

“Sorry.” She winces and begins steering them further inside the building to get out of another scolding. “I don’t know what’s gotten into Marion, I swear she’s normally the sweetest woman around here.”

Yeah, Dean bets. She looks just like the type who would invite you over for a tea party and chatter about cute little fairies or something. Suuure.

 

Sadly, they don’t get to catch up with Jo as much as Dean would like to before a middle-aged guy steps up to them and introduces himself as Jack Spradlin. But the chance meeting puts a spring in Dean’s step, fills him with unusual positivity. There’s nothing that could go wrong here. He feels invincible, ready to face everything head on. A flashback about the fire eating away at his mother’s body? No problem, he can take it. The memory of smoke in his lungs? Whatever, he made it out of there, it can’t hurt him anymore. He can combat damn well anything right now, he feels so strong, and he is going to take Sam and Jo out for a fancy dinner after they get this shit over with, because they deserve one hell of a celebration.

Sitting inside Spradlin’s office, Dean tunes out the first part of the conversation. He's only here for moral support. He has no questions and he's not the least bit curious about the details of the tragedy that took away their mother. (He doesn't give a fuck about their father. The bastard should rot in hell side by side with his buddy, Alastair, for the mess they made of Dean’s… whatever. No use thinking about that.) Anyway, Dean knows he should remember the things this guy is going to tell them. There’s nothing wrong with him medically, the docs had it checked. It’s a psychological block. Nothing physical. He knows he _should_ remember, but he doesn't need to. Or want to, for that matter.

He only starts paying attention again when Sam puts his hand on his under the cover of the table. Dean gives him a furtive look. Sam looks terrified, but he’s soldiering on as Spradlin pulls a dusty folder out of a box marked “Homicide files”. Sam’s sweaty fingers tremble.

“You know,” Spradlin starts without looking up, leafing through the papers. "there were two house fires that month. My old partner, Mike, he was a damn good cop, such a shame he retired a couple years ago, he used to tell me about the second one. Horrible sight, he said. Eight-year-old kid holding the burned corpse of his little brother next to a house in flames. Father was a complete whackjob, set it on fire.” He says, shaking his head, and thrusts a report over to them, the name “Winchester” scrawled on the top in a messy chicken scratch. There’s an address, then the name of Dean’s father and the word “deceased” after a comma.

Dean doesn’t force himself to read further. He already knows it must have been written without care - seriously, how could the police mess up these things this bad? Not so difficult to decide whether a kid is alive or not. He has no idea who this Sam Wesson turns out to be, but it doesn’t even matter. _His Sam,_ Sam Winchester, his brother, isn’t burnt and he sure as hell isn’t starting _Dawn of the Dead._ Incompetent doughnut-heads.

“They found this John Winchester's notebook in his factory locker. Ugly thing, filled with drivel about rituals, demonic sacrifices and whatnot. The guy was convinced killing his family was the ticket to a better world." Spradlin shakes his head. “Scientology, boys, scientology and brainwashing. Makes murderers out of decent people.” He adds with close-minded conviction.

Sam seems to forget how to breathe as he skims the page containing the details of that ill-fated day. His nails are biting thin, white crescents into the back of Dean's hand, but his voice doesn't waver when he raises his gaze and asks "What about the other?"

"Huh." The officer hums. He must have thought they would linger on the murder case longer. To be frank, Dean can’t wait to get outta here. Seems like there aren’t much they can tell him here that he would believe. It’s a bad enough sign that they have never uploaded these files to some kind of computer system. Smells like half-assed work.

Spradlin roots around in his haphazard stack of files beside the big box and pulls out a wrinkled, coffee-stained paper. The sentence on their lives - how ironic it's almost illegible after years of careless handling. If it turns out Sam Wesson’s case didn’t exist when he and Sam got into the system, then it counts as conclusive evidence. Evidence that Dean is right. Time to put Sam’s doubts to rest.

“Well, that's surprising.” Spradlin comments as he scans the text. “I thought all of them died, you know? It was a gas leak explosion, not something folks usually survive. It's either the toxic gas, the blast or the fire that gets you. But look, here, it says they found a toddler in the neighbour’s front yard. Report says he figured out how to unlock the door and sneaked out to play with a friend while his parents took a nap. Smart kid, huh? Luckiest one I've heard of.”

“A boy?”

“Yeah, name’s Samuel Wesson.”

Sam is on the verge of panicking, but Dean is still relaxed and calm. It means nothing. The old nurse must have read this case in the papers. It means nothing at all.

“S-Samuel?” Sam stammers.

“That’s what it’s sayin’ here. Oh, crap.” Spradlin curses as he knocks into the rest of the Winchester folder with his clumsy elbow and the contents of it spill out onto the floor, pictures of a burnt-out sofa, a gun, a pair of broken glasses and a whole bunch of papers from the forensic specialists.

All three of them jump out of their seats to gather them back together. Dean’s starting to feel a little worse off, but he banishes the niggling discomfort some of those pictures cause him to the back of his mind. He has to shake his head to eject the edges of the memories battering at his block, but he’s growing increasingly tired of not thinking about the things his mind is trying to dig up for him. Fuck, what was he thinking? He can’t go through with this. He's gonna have a flashback, sooner or later.

“Did you know John Winchester?” Spradlin asks, presumably to break the awkward silence with anything that’s not Sam’s panicked wheezing.

“Ah, no, we’re just…” Sam waves a hand, his tell when he’s about to lie through his teeth. Sneaky boy. “Distant relatives. Second cousins, once removed.”

“We are on our leave. From the navy.” Dean adds his own bullshit automatically. If Sam makes up a story, he feels compelled to colour it out. Make it more badass.

Officer Spradlin gives them a look full of admiration. It figures that the guy has a bone-deep respect for the military. “I can see why Doug vouched for you guys.”

Dean nods, about to shift back into his chair, when a corner of a picture makes him do a double take. Frowning, he pulls the whole thing out of the stack.

It’s a photo of a paper bird, blue and clumsily folded, childish handiwork. The decoration on a mailbox, an evidence of a life rendered into the ashes in the background. A blue bird, a paper bird someone smeared a tiny drop of chocolate on, a paper bird with a piece of black tape on its left wing.

Dean gasps.

The photo falls from his fingers with a whoosh just as a crippling headache descends over his brain, familiar in its agony, but alien in depth. An old, rusty cog turns after fifteen years of misuse. The dam cracks open and breaks. Sam and the guy are droning on in the background, but Dean turns deaf and blind, all he sees is that bird and the flash of memory that splits into his mind like a lightning strike, painful, sharp and irresistible.

 

_“Oh no. Mommy, I tore into his wing. I didn’t mean to. Can we glue it back together?”_

_Dean is so excited to go back to school. He will be able to stay away from Dad longer, and now he can show his teacher all the awesome stuff he made in the summer! This bird is the best one of all, he's even better than Mom’s, they have to patch him up. He wants everyone to see, this bird is so beautiful._

_“We can make another one, love.”_

_“I don't want to. There isn’t any blue paper left. He’s a really nice bird, he just needs a little bit of glue so that he can fly again!”_

_Dean likes glue a lot. You can turn back time with it. When Mom broke her favourite mug because Dad yelled at her, Dean stuck the pieces back together over the weekend and Mom was smiling again, like she did before. It’s a pity that Dad hates sticky things and doesn't let Mom buy more. If they had enough, Mom could turn back time and heal Dean’s back where the skin broke. Then things could be the way they were before._

_“I'm sorry, but you know that Daddy doesn't like it when we make a mess.”_

_“Please! It’s not his fault.”_

_“It’s not a_ he, _Dean, it’s just a piece of paper. Let's make a new one, alright?”_

_“But I like this one. I don’t wanna throw him away just because he’s hurt.”_

_Mom sighs. “Okay. How about we put a little tape on it?”_

_“But it’s gonna leave a mark.”_

_“There will be a mark anyway, sweetheart.”_

_“Ooo-kay.” Dean rolls his eyes and huffs. If only Dad liked glue a little more. If only. “Can I put him on the mailbox though? Birds like it better outside in the sun. And there are so many for Adam’s crib anyway.”_

 

The gears screech to a halt.

Adam. Adam. Adam! Jesus Christ. Adam. No. No, no, no. His brother, Adam, his - his brother -

Dean gets noisily, violently ill. All he has time for is turning his head and letting it go into the officer’s paper bin, nothing more. The acid stench of it scrapes his throat and it hurts somewhere deep in his chest, but it keeps coming and coming and coming, looks like carrots even though he never eats any goddamn carrots, oh God, oh God, he's dying, perhaps he’s already dead, turned into smoke just like his baby brother, his -

Oh God.

AdamAdamAdamAdam… Can’t be… How could he… Impossible… That crone in the orphanage didn’t say a word about this, why didn’t she? Didn't say Sam took someone else's place, didn't say Dean had a hole in his heart shaped just right for a cuckoo, her fairy tale spoke nothing of changelings, Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ! Sam is his whole world, but what if he is just a goddamn hologram of someone else, what if the cracks on Dean’s soul are from never having the real thing? Did he actually have a different brother?

Dean staggers up and away, knocking things over in his desperation to get back to the car as fast as he can, the taste of sickness still pungent in his mouth. _Burned corpse -_ no, no, impossible. He - something is wrong with his mind. That report messed with it, fucked it up. His brother is Sam, he is called Sam. _For Adam’s crib - for Adam -_ this can’t be real. His memory can’t be right. _A blue-eyed baby, golden locks -_ no, it means nothing, every baby has… they all have...

“Dean!” Sam is running after him. They are causing quite a commotion, but who cares, who the fuck cares when Dean might have - he might have forgotten - “What’s wrong? Dean!”

 _“Are you going to keep him safe, Dean?”_ He forgot, he forgot his brother, how could he? This isn’t real, this is just a bad dream, someone spiked his coffee. This isn’t his life. His brother’s name is Sam. Sam Winchester. His brother is alive. Adam is a delusion.

He reaches the parking lot and throws up again but has just enough time to get behind the wheel before Sam catches up with him and his intentions. Dean types the address into his phone - he doesn’t remember, he lived here half his life and he doesn’t remember the way, he doesn't remember anything that counts, he’s demented, he’s sick - then the car is in gear and they are speeding down the road to that place, back to where it all started. Sam is yelling at him, but Dean doesn’t even hear it, it doesn’t reach his ears, and neither do the honks and outraged shouts from the people on the streets, getting out of his way only by a miracle.

The snapshots keep filtering back in, a mosaic of pictures. Adam in a bundle, Adam in his stroller, Adam in Mom’s arms, bottles of formula… How does he get rid of them, how did he do it in the first place? They do not belong here, they aren’t real, can’t be real… He can't even comprehend… What's going on?

The Impala stumbles up onto the sidewalk when he parks, his coordination is shot to shit that bad. He falls out of it, head about cracking open from the pain of his imploding amnesia, and walks into the fenceless front yard of the place he used to live in. They built a new house on the ashes of the old one, a dull single-storey with a black roof, and Dean doesn’t recognise anything. Foolishly, he looks around for his brother, or a headstone, or anything that says Adam Winchester is not only the product of a fried connection between his brain cells. Then he sees it. The giant oak tree, the one that used to stand - the one that used to stand before their garage. It’s still there, and it still has - it still has a shaky “Dea” scratched into its trunk. The memory hits Dean in the chest, working on that signature as a kid, never getting to finish it, never getting that last letter, because his father ordered him into his room and on his knees.

He walks over there and falls down in its shade to sit on his haunches, cradling his throbbing head. He still doesn’t process much, neither the inside, nor the outside, but he feels Sam’s arm around his back, feels the nose in his hair and the fingers around his forearm, trying to pry it away. His breath hitches, and another flashback comes.

 

_“Mom!” Dean shouts. The house is burning, it’s on fire. It’s so, so hot. He takes another step inside, coughing from the smoke. Where are they? Where’s the baby?_

_There’s a thump upstairs, and his head snaps up. They must be up there. Mom’s arm is in a cast, she might not be able to get down with Adam, Dean has to go help. The flames are reaching the stairwell, but Dean can’t stop however afraid he is. He has to help Mom._

_“Mom!” He calls out again, then stops dead in his tracks. Something thick and red is dripping from the ceiling, and Dad is sitting by the wall, Mom’s head in his lap. “Dad! Get up, it’s burning!”_

_Dad doesn’t get up, though. His eyes are glassy, and he has the same bloody redness all over the side of his head. There’s a burning oil can next to him. Scared out of his mind, Dean runs over and shakes Mom’s shoulder. She can’t keep sleeping! Where’s Adam?_

_“Mom, get up, please!” A fat teardrop rolls down his cheek. He has to get Mom out of here. Taking hold of her arms, he pulls with all his strength and moves her just enough to see she’s - she doesn’t have half of her face._

_The cry he lets out is louder than he has ever dared being before. Mom’s dead, she’s dead, she can’t be dead! Dean pulls on her again, tries to make her get up, when he notices the edge of something white under her torso. Adam, it’s Adam!_

_He crouches down and rolls Mom away, off his brother’s tiny body, and sees there’s not a drop of blood on him. He’s just sleeping, he’s going to be okay. With a deep breath, Dean gathers him into his arms and turns to get down the stairs. He’s going to come back for Mom when he gets out, he just has to walk down…_

_But the stairwell is on fire already, just a narrow slip of space left that Dean is able to use. He tries to hurry, but the flames are too hot, the smoke is making him cough and Adam’s getting heavier every step he takes. He stumbles, something pierces his shirt and burns him, hurts so bad that he drops what he should have held until his last breath… The flames flare up and blow ash into the air like snowflakes, and all Dean can see is the white of that little bundle getting swallowed by orange…_

_He runs the rest of the way down and throws his jacket on the baby, pulls him out of the fire and the house, to a spot under the oak tree he wanted to make his own. He hears the sirens, but he knows it’s too late, it’s too late now. Someone asks him to let go and grabs his arm._

 

“Dean, please… Let go of your head.” Oh. It’s Sam, crying into his hair and still trying to wrench his hands away from his skull.

 _It’s too late. Too late._ It all makes sense now. The fucked-up timeline of his memories, the fragments Cas helped him recover. Dean killed his baby brother. He dropped him, and the flames ate up his tiny body, it was his fault that he died, why couldn’t he get there faster, where had he been, where…

He… he has to get away. He has to run, has to get away from this house. With bile rising in his throat, Dean jerks up and away from Sam’s hold, hitting him in the nose with his elbow by accident, but he barely notices, because his world is collapsing, and he has to get away.

Dean runs, riding on instinct, until he runs past the last houses and ends up at the park, Veteran’s park, he can see the sign, their park. Their meetup place. He just - he never entered it from this direction before. At least, he doesn't remember. He dashes in, passes a row of tall trees, poplars, big ones that whoosh in the languid summer breeze. Poplars, poplar trees… No way… Gasping for breath, he runs a little more ahead and happens upon a pond, big enough that it might look like a lake for a kid.

“What?” He spins around, hands in his hair. These are his death throes, he is sure now, it hurts so much, his headache, his throat, his chest. He sways forward and pushes past an overgrown bush, finds a big rock, slumps down on it and closes his eyes, unable to keep up any of the old blocks that kept these waves of pain away for fifteen years of his life.

 

_Dean’s sitting on his cliff again. He calls it a cliff because that sounds cooler than rock, and Dean wants to be as cool as he can get. His back is in bad shape today, but he doesn’t mind, it’s going to be over soon. Even the lake says so. It says Dean can drop the pain today. He’s sad, because he wanted to make it until the first day of school, but the water has been calling out for him for so long now that its gentle splashes sound better than his teacher’s praise. He likes the end of August anyway. It’s always warm outside and the sun shines through the leaves of Dean’s tree-friends in beautiful, golden rays. This is a good time and a good place to go to sleep, Dean thinks._

_When Grandpa died, Mom said he just fell asleep one day and woke up in Heaven. Dean wants that so much. He remembers how it felt to dive when they went to the pool - it felt nice. It was so quiet in the water. And he felt so light. He can just jump off this cliff and sink to the bottom of the lake, look up at the blue sky from below. And when he gets down there, he will fall asleep and go to Heaven. Mommy said Heaven had all the good things in the world and none of the bad. Dad would never find him there. All he has to do is close his eyes and jump. Just jump._

_“Please let Mom and Baby come after me soon. I promise I'll leave them some pie.” He whispers, smoothing his stupidly blond hair down to make himself look a little nicer. He doesn’t want the angels to think he is a bad boy._

_He takes a deep breath and gets up into a crouch, but something holds him back at the last second. He pricks up his ears and waits. There it is again! A sniff. Someone is crying just behind him, Dean can hear the wet sounds of a nose getting wiped. He hesitates. This is the day, he knows, he has to do it today. He can’t go back home, he can’t take another punishment. He wants to… he just wants it to stop._

_But that child - that child is crying. He knows it can’t be a grown-up, because grown-ups don’t cry, Dad always tells him when Mom is swallowing her tears. Dean hates seeing other people cry. He knows how sad you have to be for that, he doesn’t want anyone to feel like it. If he wants to go to sleep in the lake, he has to do it today. But he can’t leave that child alone, sad and crying in the bushes._

_He stands up and peers through the leaves of the closest bush, finds a brown-haired boy there with enormous tears in his eyes and a plush toy in his hands. He smiles at him. The kid’s lips wobble, but he smiles back and climbs out of the plant. Dean picks the leaves out of his hair._

_“Hey. I’m Dean.” He says. “Are you lost?” The child nods. Dean doesn’t have a tissue, so he wipes the boy’s cheeks with his bare hands, then looks around. He can’t see any worried grown-ups. They must be somewhere around the playground._

_Abruptly, a small hand grabs his in a desperately tight hold and the little boy tugs on his shirt. “Please don’t leave me alone.”_

_“Don’t worry.” Dean smiles at those wide hazel eyes and picks up the toy the kid dropped into the sand. There’s a tag in its ear. “I’ll find your Mom,…” He glances at the plush dog again and starts walking towards the playground. “...Sammy.”_

 

Dean opens his eyes and tastes salt on his tongue, dampness on his cheeks. _Property of Sam Wesson._ It was on the toy, Sam’s toy, his Sam’s…

He hears rushing footsteps and Sam comes pushing through the bushes, soaked in sweat and bleeding all over his chin and shirt, his nose probably broken. Dean’s vision goes hazy. “Sam Wesson.” He sobs, just as Sam collapses by his feet. “You are… Sam Wesson.”

And no, Sam is not a replacement, he knows now. He already had his initials carved on Dean’s heart before it got broken beyond repair, he is a completely different part of Dean who just never really got to be what he actually was, because they didn't know. They didn't know.

He looks at Sam, at his worried, blood-covered face, then the world splits away from him and he goes down, down, down until everything is black and nothing hurts anymore.

 

 


	15. No end, no barriers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath, Sam does his best to keep both of them afloat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angst and hurt/comfort for you guys. Sorry for the long wait, I have to work at a hospital for a few weeks and I don't have the usual energy for writing on weekdays. 
> 
> (This chapter has a few lines inspired by All Hell Breaks Loose 2 and Pac-Man Fever.)

 

 

 _"Tonight I can write the saddest lines._  
_Write, for example, 'The night is shattered_  
_and the blue stars shiver in the distance.' "_  
  
\- Neruda, Tonight I can write...

 

* * *

 

 

“I can't leave him like this!” Sam yells at the nurse that dares stand in the doorway separating him from Dean. She barely comes up to his chest, but she holds her ground without batting an eye.

The front of Sam’s shirt is still splattered with blood, he looks like he has just run twenty miles and his nose is throbbing. None of that registers on his radar, though, because Dean is much, much worse off and he needs to get back to him. They are in the Crisis Stabilization Service unit of the closest ER, have been here for three hours already, and now that the staff has decided that Dean needs inpatient care, they are trying to throw Sam out. How is that going to help anyone? Why can’t he stay where he’s fucking needed?

He almost regrets calling that EMT to the park, even though the rational part of his mind tells him it was the right thing to do. He had to do it. He couldn’t get Dean back on his feet, couldn’t get him to move at all. It was like shaking a ragdoll, or worse, a carcass. Sam wasn’t in any shape to carry him back to the Impala and deal with this crisis on his own. He had to call for help. Then the ambulance took them to the hospital, and Dean had been evaluated by, like, a dozen people, though most of them only cast one look at him and scribbled “INPATIENT” on their assessment sheets with big, block letters. Sam felt like murdering them with their own equipment at the time, but they were right - Dean doesn’t have the ability to function normally at the moment. He doesn’t do anything else but zoning out and crying, and it’s breaking Sam’s heart. He doesn’t even nod or shake his head to answer some questions - not because he doesn’t understand them, but because he doesn’t care at all. Not one bit.

They spent the last thirty minutes apart. A nurse helped Dean change into some paper scrubs (or dressed him, basically). Sam wasn’t allowed to help - he was led into a separate room where a Dr. Freud imitator went through the same questions with him that they tried to get Dean to answer an hour earlier. Past psychiatric disorders, stressors, history of abuse, self-injurious behaviour - the doctor drew a little tick beside all of them as Sam stammered through his answers with his busted nose. The guy kept nodding as if this was something he could have predicted after the first sentence was out of Sam’s mouth. It was incredibly galling, and it was nothing, but sheer luck that Sam didn’t deck him when he made a comment about how Dean probably didn’t have a significant other because they didn’t come with him to the hospital. Oh, how immensely satisfying it would have felt to throw it into his face, _here I am, you fucker!_ But, of course, Sam couldn’t have a homicidal rage fit when his bro-… when his boyfriend was already dealing with a complete nervous breakdown.

The brave nurse puts a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, I need you to calm down. Your brother is in good hands now. We gave him a tranquilizer, he’s going to fall asleep soon.”

“Just until he does.” Sam begs, lowering his voice and dropping his shoulders. Her features soften into a sympathetic frown. “Please.”

“Alright, Mr. Winchester.” She sighs and gives in with obvious reluctance. “But then I have to ask you to leave. Visiting hours are over.”

Thank God for the magical effect of his slanted eyes. “Okay. Okay.” Sam moves to brush past her with a look as grateful as it gets. “Thank you.”

It’s pleasantly dark inside the room, the blinds drawn to keep out the fading lights of this warm summer evening. They would be out there eating mustard-soaked hot dogs, Sam figures, if it wasn’t for his stupid, stupid need to dig down to the bottom of every issue he comes across. God, how reluctant Dean had been to come back here, how anxious he was, but Sam had to push and bitch and plead until he gave in. This is his fault. All his goddamn fault.

Dean is curled up on his side, facing the wall instead of the other guy dozing one bed over. Sam pulls the checkered, puce-coloured curtain around until they have a modicum of privacy and wedges himself into the uncomfortable chair Dean’s body curves towards on instinct. Looks like he knew Sam would find a way to get in, he had faith in that even in this state - the thought chokes Sam up.

“Hey, Dean.” He murmurs, wanting to call him sweet names, say words that Dean would find mushy just to hear his teasing instead of the air whistling through Dean’s clogged up nose.

“I can’t even imagine how it feels right now.” Sam starts, rubbing the knob of Dean’s shoulder. While waiting for the ambulance to pick them up, he did manage to get it out of Dean that a bunch of previously inaccessible memories are coming back to him in fits and bouts, that his psychogenic amnesia is crumbling in ripples of excruciating pain. That he remembers he was Sam Wesson’s friend before the fire. It was the last thing they talked about - after that, Dean clammed up and let go of his surroundings altogether.

“But you are gonna be okay. Trust me on this, alright? I’ll make it okay.” Dean has his eyes closed, and his cheeks are blotchy and swollen from crying, but his skin isn’t wet anymore. Only the deep frown remains on his face that Sam suspects is simply a reaction to the headache now, not something caused by the memories themselves. He brushes a thumb over it, wishing to take away the pain. “I'll make it all better.”

Dean doesn't answer, but he hiccups and pulls Sam's hand to his chin. It’s probably the best he can do in terms of reassurance. He seems sluggish and weighed down, steadily falling asleep. The drugs must be working - the realisation sends a rush of relief through Sam’s body. Everything is going to be okay now.

He holds onto his hurt with a will of iron and bends over, kisses Dean’s forehead until the grip on his hand goes slack. It's going to be okay, he tells himself.

 

* * *

 

The one time Sam had to stay in a hospital overnight he couldn’t distinguish between delirium and reality, he couldn’t comprehend what was happening to him. Sitting in the dust of the psychiatric unit’s stairwell, he feels the exact same nauseating confusion. His thoughts are swirling around like whirlwinds, knocking over trash bins of emotions he never wanted to see scattered around in his mind again. He’s lost and terrified, and needs Dean so much it’s a physical ache in his stomach. He has to stay on his own feet though, because it has to be him who stands as a pillar for once. He has to hold it together.

Never in his life did he imagine that Dean could cry the way he did today. He never would have thought he would see such inconsolable hurt on that life-hardened face, then feel how that body sags in his embrace when its owner gives up on it for good. As if on a leash attached to Dean’s heart, he is yanked right along on this path into darkness. He realises, once again, how fused together they are, how much they need each other to navigate through life’s stormy waters. Taken off guard by this reveal, they are just… they are an unstable system teetering on the edge of a disastrous chain reaction.

Sam rubs his dry, red-rimmed eyes and pulls out his phone. His fingers fly over the screen with unconscious precision, a habitual speed-dial, and he only realises his mistake when the other phone in his pocket belts out an all too familiar heavy metal riff he’s so goddamn angry to hear.

“Fuck.” He curses, tearing up.

The nurses gave him Dean’s stuff for safekeeping. His phone, his keys and wallet, his clothes, the cheap little amulet he values so much. He couldn’t even keep his boots - shoelaces aren’t allowed at the inpatient ward. Sam refuses to think about why that is. He can bring Dean pants without drawstrings tomorrow. And a book, perhaps. Five days of lock-up is a lot of potential for boredom.

“He will whine for skin mags, am I right?” Sam smiles listlessly at a dust bunny, then hugs his knees and takes a deep breath. He has to go back for the car before some teenage hooligan hotwires it. Losing Dean's Impala would be the last straw for today.

He had a niggling thought that Addie’s story had more than just a kernel of truth to it. Sam Wesson, Sam Wesson - it doesn’t sound right. He doesn’t _want it_ to sound right. But there’s this tingle of recognition that says he heard this name before, and he skimmed over those police records. He doesn’t yet know the details, but it’s true. Even Dean said so. He isn’t who he thinks he is. He is not… he doesn’t _exist._ His whole life is built on a lie. His vague memories, shadows and impressions of a house, a brown-haired woman - they never really fit anywhere, but he had no way to compare them to anything. Until today, that is. And now he can say with certainty that he remembers a different place, not the one the Winchester family lived in. A different life, according to those decade-old files. A whole other life he didn’t live because he took another boy’s place. What a low blow. Feels like a vivisection.

At least, his nose isn’t broken. The tiny nurse got a doctor for him who was decent enough to check it and prescribe some painkillers. If only he could gather the strength to get things done instead of cleaning probably prehistoric dirt off these tiles with his nicest jeans. If only his mind would just unfreeze. He has to go back to the station, apologise for the mess, blame it on PTSD or something. Then read those records more carefully than he did this time. Drive around a bit, see if he can recall something else that could be of help. Buy Dean some toffee candies because he always stuffs his face full of them to annoy Sam and Sam wants to be annoyed rather than bearing this worry for a day longer than he needs to. He wants Dean to grin up at him tomorrow, say something sloppy-sultry and whack him on the back, pretend nothing happened. He wants him happy.

Sam’s fingers slip over his phone screen again. He can’t do this alone. He punches in his other speed dial contact.

Jody picks up on the third ring. “Sam! I’m so happy you called, darling.” She says, sounding smiley, and of all things, that’s what sets off the waterworks.

“Mom?” Sam cries. “I have to tell you something.” And he finally crumples, sends dust bunnies dancing with the exhales of his heaving chest until the pressure begins to trickle out with his tears.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s one of Sam’s nicest recurring dreams that he gets a dog. A clumsy labrador that sometimes knocks him over in an attempt to lick every last inch of his face. The first time he meets the puppy in his sleep there’s always a wrought-iron gate between them that he has to stick his hand through. Sometimes the dream evolves into a long sequence of running through streets looking for that particular gate and the overeager dog behind it. The dream always ends the same way, someone calls his name and Sam sits up in bed, eyes snapping awake. Amused by it all, he used to rib Dean about drooling on his shoulder and being an aggressive closet-cuddler, which was promptly denied each and every time. He thought it was only that, silly nonsense to relax his mind.

This time, Sam knows he’s not dreaming, but he’s right here by the wrought-iron gate and he can hardly take a breath. On the opposite side of the road is the address from the police records, an unfamiliar house with unfamiliar people living in it. But the curve of the sidewalk and most of the buildings are straight out of the snapshots he could never really make sense of, the flashes from Sam Wesson’s world. Christ. So sometimes he comes back here when he’s asleep.

It’s a picture-perfect neighbourhood, quiet and family friendly. It’s hard to imagine how life would have been if he grew up here. Pretty lonely, Sam figures. He used to be a shy kid, afraid of his peers. And he didn’t inherit anything, his parents must have been broke. It’s not hard to conclude he would have never fit into the popular groups even if he wasn’t an orphan. Perhaps he would have been picked on by the rich kids. Or maybe… maybe, he would have become a big brother himself, someone’s protector. He would have never been a part of Dean’s life after the fire.

Sam glances back at the Impala’s sleek frame, waiting for him by the curb, and a fraction of an unbidden memory creeps up on him to complete the dream he always wakes up from.

_“I don't want you to leave.” Sam says, petting the neighbour’s puppy. Mom is calling for him, but he doesn’t want to go home, he wants to play with Dean._

_“I know, Sammy.” Dean ruffles his hair. He is smiling because Sam gave him the nicest of his black cars and he really likes it. “You know what? Tomorrow afternoon, I'll come here straight from school and we can play as long as you want.”_

“Holy shit.” Sam gapes, mind whirring as the pieces slot together. He could never place this snapshot before. It was such a vague recollection, he couldn’t find meaningful details in it, but it makes so much more sense now. The files said Sam Wesson survived the explosion because he wasn’t inside with his parents. He wandered out of the house to meet a friend. Is this how it happened? Is this why he sneaked out, to wait for Dean to show up? Does Dean remember? Was he there with Sam during the explosion?

Sam wishes he could ask him. He wishes they could talk. It's pathetic, really, how he longs for Dean to tell him it's gonna be alright. It has been two days and Dean has yet to come out of his room when it’s time for visiting hours, even though he knows Sam is not allowed to go in there, damn the ridiculous hospital protocol. He doesn’t want to face anyone. Not wanting to see Sam is understandable - this is his fault, after all - but why doesn’t he speak to Jody? She drove over straight away after Sam called her and spent every waking minute trying to find ways to help them, why can’t Dean just come out and hug her? Why can’t he give them a life sign or something? They are still his goddamn family. Especially Jody and Bobby. Sam doesn’t know what he is anymore. He just… he hopes Dean still loves him. That’s all.

He sits back into the car and presses his face into the upholstery, eyes closed. There’s nothing else for him to remember about this place. What the hell did he think this trip would give him? Answers? It’s not like he has an amnesia to unlock. He remembers as much as he ever will. All he gained from this is something to connect his stray snapshots to. Nothing groundbreaking that would help him understand.

His fingers dig into the leather in frustration. The faintest traces of Dean’s scent surround him and bring wetness to his eyes that he wipes away angrily. What is he going to do now? Should he take this to court, fight for an identity that doesn’t feel his anyway? Should he press charges against a frail old woman who only tried to do the best for him? What an insane predicament.

Should he risk his relationship with Dean? If he takes legal steps to clear things up, they will have to stop dating. Because, according to the law, incest applies to adopted siblings too, no matter the lack of biological connection. Who knows, though, Dean might not want him anyway. Sam can’t fathom what’s going on in his mind. Not much good, he assumes.

For better or worse, he’s taking Dean back to Sioux Falls three days from now. They already made some adjustments - Bobby rearranged Dean’s old bedroom, put Sam’s bed in there too to make sure Dean won’t stay alone for longer periods. They can’t let him hurt himself. Sam prays that he won’t even try.

 

* * *

 

 

“Dude. Did you lose your razor?” Are the first words Dean says to him when the nurses let Sam into the psychiatric ward on the fifth afternoon. He is sitting at a table that’s covered by a weird assortment of things - a handful of cigarettes, a picture of someone’s cat, candy bars, books and a battered deck of cards. His content smile reeks of faking to Sam’s experienced eyes.

Sam purses his lips. Yes, he forgot to shave. Not like he turned into Tom Selleck after five days, but it shows, and he _knows_ it does, just… he hardly had a wink of sleep and he feels like utter crap. Shaving was the last thing on his mind.

“Did you start gambling in here?” He asks, ignoring Dean’s question.

Dean rocks back with his chair, raising an eyebrow. “I’m a fine businessman, Sam. Check out my winnings.” Sam takes another glance at the heap of objects. He spots a set of false teeth in there too. “Besides, I was bored out of my mind.”

“You know you can’t take all these -”

“I know.” Dean grumbles, his faux-cheer fading fast. “The nurses can sort them out, I don’t care.”

Sam sits down next to him and puts a hand on his elbow, circling with his thumb. The hurt in Dean’s green eyes opens up like a pit of darkness, the act he tried to put on all but gone. Just like Sam expected. It’s okay. He had five days to prepare himself for everything Dean can possibly throw his way. He can handle it. “How are you feeling?”

Dean opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His breathing stops for a second. “Don't know.” He mumbles at last. “They pump me full of drugs here. I'm just numb.”

Someone begins wailing in a room down the hall. A bulky male nurse stands up and disappears in that direction. Dean shudders. “These crazies creep me out. Can you take me home, Sammy?”

Sam lets his hand slip lower, folds it into Dean’s and squeezes. It’s about time to leave this place. “Yeah. I'm taking you home, Dean.”

Dean swallows. The dim light of his gaze shifts away into the distance, away from Sam’s eyes. His hand doesn’t squeeze back. “Good.” He says to the table top, voice devoid of any feeling. Sam has to believe he means it anyway.

 

By the time they get down to the car, Dean looks like his soul has been smashed into pieces over the course of the last few days. He can’t maintain any sort of pretension anymore - it’s very telling that he lasted for only about five minutes while any other time he is the king of keeping up appearances. Regardless of the dust, he strokes a hand along Baby’s black metal with a sort of reverent longing that seems alien on his handsome face.

“I can't drive.” He chokes out, eyes watering.

Sam knows. He got detailed information of Dean’s medication and the precautions he should take before getting him home. Still, he is sure it’s better that he came with the Impala instead of Jody’s car. Even if Dean has to ride shotgun, it must be a comfort. “It’s alright, I will handle it.”

Dean nods grimly and fiddles with the amulet Sam has given back to him when they exited the ward. His composure seems like a brittle coat of armour, rusty and on the verge of falling apart. Sam reaches out to - to pull him close or to soothe, he doesn’t know - but Dean steels himself and opens the door faster than Sam could touch him. Misery surges up in Sam’s mind. Dean not only refuses to have a meaningful talk, he shies away from physical contact too. It’s not personal, but it still shoots Sam’s soul with arrows every single time.

Schooling his expression into something carefully neutral, Sam circles the car and gets behind the wheel. No use moping over Dean’s coping methods. As long as they work and don’t hurt him, Sam has to accept them.

They spend the first hour of their drive to Sioux Falls in silence. Dean doesn’t eat any of the sweets Sam filled the Impala with, he doesn’t ask questions and only answers Sam’s when he has no chance to get away with a simple jerk of his head. After a while, Sam stops trying altogether and lets the engine’s rumble lull them into an illusion of comfort. He hopes Jody won’t mind if Dean keeps brushing her off too when they get home. And that she isn’t mad at Sam. She wanted to be here with the two of them, but Sam desperately needed to be alone with Dean and convinced her to go home a day earlier. He doesn’t want to keep himself in check and try acting like a brother if something goes awry. If Dean needs him, he has to be there in every capacity he can provide, and Jody’s presence, as much as Sam loves her as his Mom, would have prevented that.

He wonders if he did the right thing with that. He has no way of knowing what Dean thinks of him right now. If he… if he resents Sam, blames him for his breakdown or just plain hates his guts, Sam’s decision might have made matters worse. He feels like he should apologise, grovel for something he inadvertently caused, but he has no idea where to start and Dean wouldn’t appreciate it anyway. The tension of all their unsaid thoughts feels like living hell.

They are well into the second hour when Dean straightens up with an abrupt jolt and barks an order. “Pull over.”

Sam barely avoids swerving into the other (thankfully empty) lane in fright. “We’re on a bridge, Dean, I can't.”

“Pull the fuck over!”

“Jesus! Wait a goddamn minute.”

When they finally cross the small river that pulled this sudden reaction out of Dean, Sam brings the car to a stop next to a clump of trees and turns to hear whatever is about to come out of his br… boyfriend. This isn’t about taking a leak, he has no doubt about that.

Sure enough, after another minute of hesitation, Dean begins talking to his own lap. “I don’t yet remember everything.” He clears his throat. “But I know the big things now. And I know what happened when... when Adam died.”

His breaths become short and labored, panicked. Sam itches to touch, but he can’t risk stopping whatever confession is on Dean’s tongue. He needs to hear it.

“My father really gave it to me that day, you know? Beat me half-dead. I wished he had gone through with it.” Dean soldiers on. “I ran away to the park as soon as I could, tried to find you. You never… you never cared about these.” He gestures at his back. “But you disappeared, your home was blown up and I was missing you so bad…” Sighing, he rubs a hand over his face. “I skipped school and just wandered around all day.”

“Looking for me.”

Dean nods, twisting his own fingers almost savagely. “The place was on fire when I got back.” Sam grips Dean's wrist and pulls it away from his other hand before he breaks his own pinky.

Dean’s head whips up, eyes full of anguish and grief. His thoughts take a hairpin turn for the worse. “It wasn't Adam’s fault that he was a fussy baby. He didn’t deserve to - How could my father -”

Sam feels the vein in his temple throb as he tries to keep his calm. “You didn’t deserve it either.”

Dean shakes his head, now openly crying, but still trying to suck the tears back up. “I always tried to protect him… Keep him safe… It was just always my responsibility, you know? It’s like I had one job… I had one job, and I screwed it up.” He weeps. “I blew it. I dropped him, and the fire - I killed him. I -”

Sam cups the back of Dean’s head and holds his gaze. “Dean, you didn't… He was already gone.”

Dean blinks, and a pair of fat teardrops roll down his freckled cheeks. “What?”

“It was in the autopsy report.” Sam tells him gently. “Shaken baby syndrome.”

“Really?” Dean frowns, uncomprehending. He’s too worked up to understand there was nothing he could have done to save his brother’s life. He keeps spiralling. “But if I got there sooner, maybe I could have… Why didn't I? I could have saved him.” He says with heartbroken conviction. “Then I… then I just forgot. How could I forget?”

He pulls his head away from Sam’s hand, biting his lips raw. “How can I - How am I supposed to live with that? What am I supposed to do?” His arms tremble.

“I just want this pain to end.” He cries, not once looking at Sam’s furiously shaking head. He grabs the door handle. “Please, Sam. Let me go back to that bridge and get it over with.”

The world comes to a standstill. Sam can’t hear his breathing from the blood pounding in his ears as he tightens his grip on Dean’s wrist like a vice. He can’t let him open that door. It strikes him with sudden clarity that if his hold loosens, if he lets Dean slip out of his hands, a breakup won't be the only way Sam will lose him. He tried to prepare for this scenario too, but the severity of Dean’s hopelessness surpasses his wildest imagination. Staring down this darkness is bone-chilling.

How stupid he has been before, thinking he pulled both of them along, that his input alone was the reason that stirred Dean forward. No - _this_ is the moment when he feels it, that now both of their weights are on his shoulders, and he almost breaks in half from the responsibility of carrying his entire world on his back like Atlas holds up the mythological sky.

“Don’t you dare give up.” He says through his teeth. “Don't do that to me.”

Sam knows killing himself isn't what Dean actually wants. He wouldn't ask for permission then. Rather, what he needs is reassurance, for Sam to tell him he is still loved and wanted, for Sam to hold him back and be someone Dean can keep fighting for. He just doesn't know any other way to ask for it. He thinks hurting himself and being repentant are the only routes for him to be good enough for affection. He still doesn't understand that Sam’s love doesn't come with conditions, that it knows no barriers and no end.

Dean’s exhale rattles in his chest. He tries to yank his arm away. “I’m tired.”

Sam fists the hem of Dean’s shirt. “I _need you_ to keep fighting.”

“I can't.”

“Yes, you can.” Sam hisses, nostrils flaring. He sounds hard and cold, but this isn’t the time for pampering. It has to get across that he will _never_ let Dean take his own life. Dean raises his eyes heavenwards, wet tracks running down his temples and into his hairline. His wrist wriggles in Sam’s fist again, but Sam won’t let it get free. This time, he doesn’t even care about the circle of bruises he’ll leave behind.

“You can do it.” He repeats, cradles Dean’s cheek and presses the tiniest of kisses to his salty-wet skin. It’s palpable how Dean’s self-destructive resolve breaks under his lips. Dean closes his eyes and pulls away from the touch, leans his head against the window and gives up on communication again. His hand slips from the door handle. _Alright, you win,_ his body says. _This time._

Sam swallows, carefully measures his breathing so as not to give away how fucking scared he is, and starts up the car again, releasing Dean’s wrist and steering them back onto the road. The gold-green corn fields of Iowa wave them a sad goodbye as they race past them, swinging in the lazy summer wind. A ray of sunshine dries up Dean’s tears, even through the glass. Sam counts Dean’s inhales in the silence.

 

* * *

 

Dean doesn’t cry again after that. He has a bunch of antidepressants prescribed that Jody tries to make him take diligently every day, but more times than not Sam finds their remains in the trash, and on one memorable occasion, thrown up in the backyard. They are having a hard time dealing with Dean’s reluctance. But what is there to do, except for being patient?

Ever since they came back from the hospital, Jody and Bobby speak in hushed tones. It must drive Dean crazy when he cares to give a damn about it, Sam is sure. He’s not sick in the traditional sense after all. But how do you treat someone who has just gone through a mental breakdown? How do you behave around them? How to be sympathetic and sensitive without condescension? Sam doesn't know. It’s not like he is in the best of conditions either. His mind can't even comprehend what's happening. But he knows walking on eggshells around Dean is just going to rile him up.

Ironically, it blows up into _Sam’s_ face the second week they spend there. They are alone, will be until late that night, and Dean is obviously getting restless. He hasn’t eaten in a day, no matter what was pushed in front of him. Sam is still keeping the emergency psychiatrist’s advice and doesn’t leave Dean alone for longer than twenty minutes at a time. It tires both of them out, puts a strain on their relationship. Sam fears Dean doesn’t even want it to continue. They rarely ever touch, and nothing beyond platonic happened since Kansas. Will they ever go back to what they had? Sam will be crushed if they don’t.

The saddest thing is, he had to realise he doesn't even know what comforts Dean in a situation like this. Usually, he focuses on Sam, puts all his efforts into doing something for him, but that's out of the question here. Right now, Dean is beyond the point of being able to do that. Alcohol would be his second choice, but that’s a double no, what with the medication and everything. And Sam obviously can’t let him dissociate and injure himself, so ninety percent of his coping mechanisms are ruled out. What does this leave them with?

“You have to eat.” Sam nudges Dean’s foot as they sit on opposite ends of the couch, the daily news droning on in front of them.

He understands why Dean doesn’t want to. He remembers how depressed he was as a kid those rare times when Dean was separated from him, when he was sent to a different foster or to juvie. He used to be too sad to even think about food, and when someone forced it down his throat, it felt like chewing ash. It’s easy to see how much harder getting the motivation is for Dean when he had just found out he lost his real brother years ago. But he has to push through that block.

Sam thought about reminding him that he, on the other hand, is still alive, but he’s too afraid Dean might say he doesn’t care because Sam means nothing to him. He is afraid of losing it himself if he delves too deep into that notion. His priority has to be Dean for now.

Dean pulls his legs under himself. Shrinking away again. “I know.”

“I can get you a pie. Or we can reheat some soup. Jody made your favourite.” Dean just sniffs and looks down at his lap. Sam doesn’t let him off the hook, though. “Do you want something to drink?”

Dean shakes his head and looks up at him for once. “I want to go for a drive.”

Finally. “Okay. We can do that.”

“Alone, Sam.”

Sam sighs. “You know you can’t drive until you’re off the meds.”

Dean’s face remains impassive. “So?”

“So, I can’t let you. I’m sorry. But I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

It happens so fast Sam startles - Dean jumps up to his feet, eyes shooting sparks of livid fire, and begins yelling. “I just want to be left alone. Is that too much to ask for?” He fumes. “I'm fed up with this constant goddamn supervision. Is this a house arrest or what? Why can’t you go away, go back to California or to Kansas, why don’t you just _leave me alone?”_

“Because I love you.”

It takes the wind right out of Dean’s sails. Sam shivers, like every single time he says this. It’s not easy, because taking Dean’s harshness will never stop hurting him, but he knows he needs to express it as many times as he can.

Dean opens and closes his mouth mutely, taken aback, then throws his hands up in frustration. “You don’t even know who I am!”

Sam ignores the voice in his head that’s eager to agree, and stands up, reaching out for Dean’s hand. “You know that’s not true.”

Dean’s anger is unstoppable at this point, an avalanche that started with a snowball. He slaps Sam’s fingers away and stomps out of the room, huffing.

Sam calls after him. “Where are you going?”

“Can I take a crap in peace or are you gonna follow me in there too?” Dean yells back, rude and pissed off.

Great. Sam bows his head, flinching when the bathroom door slams shut with a bang. So much for making progress.

 

* * *

 

Dean slips into the shower with him that evening. Frames Sam’s waist with tentative palms and just holds onto him, silent as a grave, until Sam extricates himself and turns to hug him properly. Dean folds into the embrace without resistance, pliant and apologetic. His stubble tickles Sam’s jaw. Dear God, how much he missed this, how much it hurt not to have this… Three weeks of withdrawal felt like eternal torment. He secures his arms tighter around Dean’s shoulders and gets a choked-off, needy noise in return. The water is almost scalding hot, the way Sam likes it when he is upset, but they are both shaking as their suppressed emotions unfurl. It’s so goddamn good to hold each other again. Sam never wants to let go. The scarred plane of Dean’s back expands with a huge sigh under his fingers, as if in agreement, _don’t let go, Sammy._ His exhale leaves a trail of goosebumps on Sam’s skin as they sway in place, pressing ever closer to get rid of the rift that began to tear them apart. Relief floods into Sam’s veins as if the world has just found its axis again. Its overpowering force leaves no room for arousal in spite of how naked they are and how long it has been since Dean’s smooth belly rubbed against his own. Sam closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of Dean’s hair, not yet dampened by the shower. It smells cosy. Words escape him, but his mind runs wild, takes note of every single spot of contact and soaks up the comfort they radiate. His hands chase drops of water away from Dean’s skin, caress them off, jealous of every touch that isn’t his. The tip of Dean’s nose pokes his throat and makes him swallow.

“Sorry for being an ass today.” Dean whispers into his neck.

Sam battles the urge to pull back and kiss him breathless in answer. “It’s alright.”

Dean sounds like it’s anything but alright. “I don’t know what’s up with me. I don’t feel like myself.”

Oh, he is not like himself, no question about it. He is… softer. His eyes, his expressions, his behaviour - they seem more innocent. Fragile like a butterfly's wing. Or maybe that’s just Sam, seeing more into things than he should. He doesn't know. He doesn't know if it’s permanent or just something that wobbled out of kilter but will swing back as soon as Dean starts coping. He doesn't know anything. But he wants Dean back. _His_ Dean, not this hollow shell of him, his strong, funny, unshakeable big brother. It’s selfish, and he feels plenty guilty about it, but he yearns for the support and the shelter Dean has always been for him. Sam has to grow up for real _right now,_ and it’s frightening to do it while Dean is dependent on his ability to succeed.

Dean’s fingertips skitter down the length of his spine. “Can we go back to Palo Alto?”

Sam’s eyebrows rise in surprise. He was under the impression that Dean didn’t like California and considered it only as a temporary residence. He thought he would want to stay here, maybe even ask Sam to leave, angle for a smooth breakup. Although, it’s obvious how going to a different therapist every week would tire someone out. Dean probably wants to go back to Missouri, someone he already trusts instead of trying to build a rapport with a new person. This must be the reason why he wants to go back.

Sam takes a tiny step back to look at Dean’s face. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes.”

A wish he can fulfil at last. “Okay.” Sam gives him a faint smile. He really, really wants a kiss. But he still hasn't figured out what kind of affection would help Dean the most, and taking into account how volatile Dean has been all week, it would be like playing Russian roulette. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment by pushing something Dean might not be happy about.

“Okay.” Dean smiles back, curves those lovely lips of his for the first time since he left the hospital, his pearly white teeth flashing, and that makes Sam’s entire week feel worthwhile. Honestly, he’s that far gone.

They wash up in comfortable silence, shifting back and forth to fit under the spray, until Sam’s fingers start pruning and Dean’s cheeks turn healthily flushed, their sallow hue brightening. Sam takes a thorough look at him and feels his heart clench again. Dean lost considerable weight, his stance is the furthest thing from cocksure, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He seems worn-out and sickly compared to his usual self.

“What?” Dean blinks up at him with his pretty eyelashes clumped together.

Sam doesn't know what to say, what would be the right thing? It’s goddamn irritating, but he can’t help second guessing everything he does. His confidence has dropped to the floor. “Nothing.”

Normally, Dean would have cracked a joke right about now, something lewd or cocky, but he doesn’t grab the chance this time, just tilts his head to the side and casts his eyes down, trying for a flippant tone. “I know, I look like shit.”

“No!” Sam rushes to cut in, then wilts at the bewildered frown Dean shoots his way. “I mean… You… It doesn’t matter, okay?”

A hint of a gleam lights up in Dean’s gaze. “Doesn’t matter, huh?” He murmurs and steps closer. His arms snake back around Sam’s waist, lower than before. “Sure it doesn’t, Sammy?”

Sam freaking _melts._ “Positive.”

The kiss Dean plants on his lips is feather-light and chaste, but Sam is touch starved and can’t get enough after the first taste, has to chase Dean’s mouth and lick into it until his lungs start burning. By the time he eventually pulls back and presses their foreheads together, he is blushing, and Dean’s exhales are fanning his skin in sharp little puffs. That was embarrassingly desperate. A show of how much Sam has been neglecting his own needs. Any other time, Dean would fire another teasing comment, say something about how he didn’t know Sam had it in him, but he just pushes up into another short peck and remains quiet. Sam feels out of sorts about it. He can’t take more of this solemnity and the cloud of issues they keep skirting around. Has to stir up the mood somehow.

“Dean?”

“Yes?”

Now, if he doesn’t jump on this one… “I kind of broke the door of the kitchen cupboard.”

Dean huffs a laugh and disentangles himself. “How?”

Sam shrugs. Actually, he wrenched it off its hinges when Dean was asleep, knocked out by his medication. He was sort of mad at the entity who decided this should be Sam’s messed-up disaster of a life. It wasn’t a big deal. Not at all. “It was stuck and I pulled too hard, I guess.”

A cautious grin appears on Dean’s face. Sam could sing at the sight.

“This is why we don’t have nice things, Sam.” Dean tells him fondly and pulls back the shower curtain. He looks ten times better than he did this morning. The pressure around Sam’s chest eases. “Come on, let’s get outta here before I grow a pair of gills. I’ll take a look at your handiwork before Jody gets home.”

 

 

 


	16. A good start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Palo Alto, Dean finally begins to heal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this took me forever to write, that hospital thing ate up all my time. But it's finally over now!
> 
> This chapter is mostly hurt/comfort with a bit of fluff. I hope the content is up to par.

 

_“Life goes on grinding up_   
_glass, wearing out clothes_   
_making fragments_   
_breaking down_   
_forms_   
_and what lasts through time_   
_is like an island on a ship in the sea,_   
_perishable_   
_surrounded by dangerous fragility_   
_by merciless waters and threats._

_..._   
_May whatever breaks_   
_be reconstructed by the sea_   
_with the long labor of its tides._   
_So many useless things_   
_which nobody broke_   
_but which got broken anyway.”_

\- Neruda, Ode to Broken Things

 

* * *

 

 

Leaving Sioux Falls was, for lack of a more fitting word… tense. Jody had been vehemently disapproving of jostling Dean again this soon, and fierce as she is, she told them outright that it was a bad idea. Naturally, it triggered a certain flammable spot in Dean’s mind that had been waiting for something to blow it up for days, and the resulting fight shook the walls with its volume. It left Sam with a crying Mom, an irritated Bobby and a mercurial, belligerent boyfriend who would have bitten his head off if he pushed a compromise. He wasn’t exactly facing an abundance of choices that could have appeased all sides. So, regardless of the frigid atmosphere, they packed up and left the following day.

If Sam had to be earnest with himself, he would have to admit he feels a tiny bit resentful of the way Dean treated Jody and Bobby. It’s damn difficult to get why he acted like a stranger - well, worse than that - when all they ever got from their adoptive parents was love and understanding. Okay, so perhaps Dean doesn’t have the kind of relationship with them that Sam does. Still. Jody is the only person in their lives who can ever come close to being their actual mother, why did Dean have to hurt her so bad? Not calling her Mom is one thing, telling her she would never live up to Dean’s biological mother is another. For one, that is the biggest bullshit Sam has ever heard and he shared a desk with Brace-face Becky in tenth grade. Since they agreed on going back to California, Dean told him quite a bit about Mary Winchester, and suffice it to say Sam hates her with a fiery passion. He has no doubt that Jody wouldn’t have assisted to the abuse Dean went through like that woman did. How could a mother watch that happening to her child? It’s beyond Sam’s understanding. So yeah, he is a little pissed off that Dean claimed Mary was better. And it’s even more salt in the wound that he couldn’t behave like a decent person around the couple who saved their asses by getting them out of the system.

Regarding the way he treats Sam… that’s a whole new can of worms Sam would rather not think about. Where they stand on the relationship thing isn’t yet decided. That short kiss under the shower didn’t prove anything. The sense of foreboding is still clamouring in his mind. Dean will probably slap the breakup into his face when Sam least expects him to do so. That would be fitting for the luck Sam has been having lately.

Currently, they are less than three hundred miles away from Palo Alto and a familiar mattress to collapse on, but Sam can’t take it, he can’t sit behind the wheel anymore today. Tackling a thousand-mile-long drive takes its toll on a man. Goddamn Dean’s aviophobia. “We are stopping at the next motel, alright?” He announces.

Dean frowns at him, eyes full of imminent doom. “Why?”

Crossing his proverbial fingers and hoping Dean won’t snap at him again, Sam clears his throat. “My legs are cramping.”

“We’ve just left Reno, man, can’t you grit through it?”

“No, Dean, I can’t.”

“Then for God’s sake, let me drive. I ain’t gonna stop four hours away from home.”

Why can’t Sam ever have an easy day? A whole twenty-four hours when he doesn’t have to battle anyone? He is so inhumanly tired, body and soul, he has to catch a break. He has to. “Sure you will.” He tells Dean with a resigned little sigh.

“We could be there by sunset!”

True. “I cannot keep going that long.” Also true.

Dean slaps the dashboard. “I want to sleep in my own fucking bed tonight!”

Something breaks loose in Sam’s chest and stabs him right in the heart, cuts all his bottled-up rage free. “Stop fighting me over this!” He raises his voice.

“Then take me the fuck home!” Dean bellows back.

Mind flooded with the murky haze of red-hot fury, Sam turns the car onto a dirt road and steps on the brakes, tears the door open and slams it behind himself as soon as he is out of his seat. He pulls in a deep, calming breath, and closes his eyes for a second. _This is only temporary,_ he tells himself, _he’s gonna bounce back soon enough._ But it doesn’t ring true anymore. The fatigue inside him seems all-encompassing and incurable. Tiny tremors are running through his legs from the crippling mixture of exhaustion and anger that drags his body down. He can’t do this. He’s not used to… Dean has always… Whatever. Like so many other things, driving is Sam’s duty for now.

“What the hell?” Dean snarls at him, climbing out and stirring the dust around his shoes. He stomps in frustration, regressing like a child. It’s the last drop of poison Sam is able to take.

“You know what? Enough is enough.” He hisses, hands fisted. There’s a distinct picture in his mind, his face distorted from shouting at Dean with a frothing mouth, pouring all the nastiness over his stupid head. It’s still nothing but a mild expression of what he feels inside.

“Newsflash - I’m grieving too!” He yells.

Dean takes an involuntary step back, eyes going wide. _Good,_ Sam seethes, full of vitriol. About time he gets it. “What did I lose? _My own goddamn identity._ Can you comprehend that? Because I can’t. Sam Winchester never was your brother, he doesn’t have a past, doesn’t have a family - he doesn’t even _exist!”_ How could anyone crawl out of a mess like this? How to carry on? Sam sets his jaw, voice cold as burnished steel.

“So here’s the thing, Dean, and I want you to keep it in your fucking mind. Feeling like crap doesn’t give you the right to stomp all over me, especially when I’m trying my absolute best. Get a grip, will you? You have no idea how hard it is to deal with this shit. Seeing you like this is -” He bites off the last part, a tinge of regret creeping in. Dean’s eyes are swimming in tears he doesn’t let drop, resolute bastard he is. Sam cools down a notch. “Just - if all you can do is lashing out at me, then you should just keep your mouth shut. Clear?”

Dean averts his eyes, shiny droplets clinging to his dark lashes. His mood has turned inside out at the drop of a hat, as it is wont to do these days. Depression at its finest. He must have thrown out his morning pill again. Considering this, there’s no satisfaction in seeing his gesture of submission, but it’s closure nonetheless. Sam nods, turns away. He feels even worse now. What a lovely afternoon. “Terrific.”

The silence in the car comes as a sanctuary.

 

When they pull up to their motel of the night, Dean jumps out of the car, mumbles something about getting them a room and rushes into the building. Sam runs a hand over his face, then follows at a slower pace, dragging his legs and the lead manacles that seem to be attached to them. Inside, the clerk behind the counter gives him a weird look.

“You the brother?”

What? Did Dean check them in as _brothers?_ Why on earth? And did he still ask for a king bed? No wonder the clerk is bewildered if he did. “Uh… yeah?”

The man shakes his head, then rattles off the room number and some half-assed house rules neither of them gives a damn about.

“Just keep it down, boys.” He adds with a long-suffering sigh. Sam tries to smile, but he suspects it comes out as an awkward cringe instead. Dean’s not going to make this overdue stop easy for him, is he?

Turns out that Dean checked them in as siblings because he _didn’t want to_ ask for a king bed.

“I see.” Sam sighs when he sees the layout. Two queens, pushed as far away from each other as possible.

Dean is lying prone on the one closest to the door, his face buried in his pillow. His boots are still on, sand caked into the grooves of their soles. Should Sam take them off? Nah. Better not tempt fate. He moves to put his bag at the foot of his own bed when he notices a slip of paper resting on the flower-patterned pillow. Is it a “fuck you, asshole” note? Or is that the break-up notice he has been dreading since the first day of Dean’s hospitalisation? A combination of both? Sam glances at Dean’s back, watches it move up and down and purses his lips. It can’t get much worse than the way it is now, right?

Before he has time to change his mind, he strides over and snatches up the little white piece to study the messy scrawl written on it.

_we are a family, Sam - D_

It’s a very simple sentiment. Nothing fancy or mind-blowing, but something that pulls on Sam’s heartstrings nevertheless. Ever since they found out the truth, his old fear of not belonging has come back with a vengeance. Deep inside he is so afraid that he is going to lose everyone who’s important to him that he let it eat away at him to the point of losing hope. But, he realises with a stutter in his breathing, Dean reached out to him through his own emotional hell when he noticed Sam was getting unbalanced. This is how they work, isn’t it? Pushing and pulling on each other to keep walking the line side by side. Never letting go.

Sam puts the note back in its place and slowly, soundlessly sinks down on the mattress beside Dean’s hip. His hand finds the small of Dean’s back and strokes, cajoling, but elicits no response. Okay then. He can step up his game. Sam slides his palms around and under Dean’s belly, bends from the waist and wiggles until his arms form a band around Dean’s chest, an apologetic hold that soothes the suspiciously hitching inhales to rest.

“I’m sorry that I snapped at you.” He whispers into Dean’s ear.

He gets a furious headshake in response. “You were right.” Dean mumbles. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Sam has to concede to that. But that doesn’t mean Dean has to distance himself, does it? “Roll over.”

He prods at Dean’s side until he shifts away enough that Sam is able to lie down behind the curl of his body. His sneakers shed their own handful of sand to pool on the clean sheet next to Dean’s mess, but Sam couldn’t care less at the moment. He cards his fingers through Dean’s hair, gauging if he can go for spooning or not.

“So… in this family of ours. Are we brothers?” He ventures. “Or are we… something else?”

At that, Dean turns to face him, features mellow. It’s obvious that he must have had another mood shift - they sure come and go like nobody’s business today. He must be too tired for normal self-control, God knows Sam is struggling himself. But his eyes don’t look too red, so at least he didn’t flat-out cry, thank God. That trifle on the dirt road wouldn’t have been worth it, really.

“You decide.” Dean says, lips twitching upward.

They are on the same page then, it seems. “Let’s go with something else.” He replies and offers a short, dry kiss that Dean takes with a smile. It’s still not enough - Sam needs to hear it, needs the most tangible affirmation he can get. It’s irrational, but he is insecure about this, has always been. Jealous and insecure. Wants all of Dean for himself, forever and beyond. “I take it you don’t wanna dump me then?”

“I never did.” Dean scoots closer, frowning. “It’s still you and me against the world, bud.”

Sam’s anxiety deflates like a balloon. “Yeah.”

“You don’t look convinced.”

Sam shrugs. “The world doesn’t make much sense right now.”

“I know.” Dean sighs, pulling a snagged thread further out of Sam’s shirt. “What are we going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you change your name?”

“Don’t think so.”

The strand of cotton tears, the thin maroon piece pinched between Dean’s pointer and thumb. With unwarranted concentration, Dean starts looping it around Sam’s ring finger, a peculiar look on his face. “A lawsuit would be too much trouble, huh?”

Sam feels like he’s missing something here. It’s as though there’s another layer to this conversation he’s not privy to. “I like my name as it is.”

Dean seems immensely satisfied by that answer. He ties the thread around Sam’s finger, picks at it with his nail, then sits up so abruptly that Sam jumps. “Do you want me to get some burgers? I saw…” His voice dies for a second and his face screws up in pain, his hand flying to his chest, but he tries to carry on and pretend the stop didn’t happen. “...a diner down the road.”

He gives Sam a reassuring smile and a wink. “Promise I’ll walk.”

It’s honestly baffling that he thinks Sam will just let that pause slide. “Quit it.” He tells Dean and pulls him back down. “I know you’re hurting.”

Dean purses his lips, defeated. “Just a headache.”

“Uh-huh.” They both know what it truly is. Anxiety chest pain that can be so intolerable at times that Dean once scratched up his own sternum trying to claw it away. As far as Sam knows, it’s a sharp, stabbing ache, like having your heart used as a pincushion. A literal broken heart. “How about we do our old trick, hm?”

It speaks volumes of how bad it is now that Dean just nods, lies down on his back and waits for Sam to press a hand to the center of his chest. It doesn't stop the pain, but makes it easier to breathe through the pinpricks that would otherwise squeeze Dean’s lungs into a panic attack.

“I’m fine.” Dean gripes, but falls asleep within minutes as the exhaustion of the last few days catches up with him and takes him under. Deep in thought, Sam retracts his hand and unloops the thread of fabric from his finger. He wonders what Dean is dreaming about.

 

* * *

 

Three days after they get back to Palo Alto, Sam catches some dreadful stomach bug that renders him useless, incapable of anything but puking and cooking in his own feverish sweat. He feels disgusting and miserable, so naturally this is the time Dean deems fit for rekindling their habit of disregarding personal space.

“Nooo…” Sam moans when Dean wrestles him out of his sopping wet shirt and pulls a clean one over his head. “Gonna infect you.”

Dean just snorts and maneuvers Sam’s limp arms through the sleeves. His skin feels ice cold, practically sizzling when it connects with Sam’s heat, but Sam is too weak to bat the touch away. “‘M gross.”

“You are.” Dean agrees cheerfully.

Sam makes a face and suppresses a burp. He eyes the empty bucket at Dean’s feet, contemplating. “Hate you.”

“Tell me about it, pal.”

Sam whines. “You never call me anything sweet.” He lets Dean tug his body this way and that until he’s half-sitting, back to Dean’s chest. The bucket is placed in his lap without further ado. “I’m ruining our first week here.”

Dean starts channel surfing, humming to himself. He is so freaking weird. Is it because of the new flat? Does he like it this much? Still bizarre. “Not really. I think of it as an extended lie-in.”

Sam puts the bucket aside, pulling his long legs up and closing his eyes. He doubts there’s anything else in him that could make its way out. “Why are you so goddamn happy?”

“‘Cause I took my pill?” Dean flattens Sam’s bangs to his forehead, then ruffles them again. “Can’t have both of us out of commission, _honey.”_

Sam groans and kicks Dean with all his might (which equals a feeble bump at the moment). He shouldn’t have said anything about the nicknames, Dean is going to be infuriating now. Also… “You took your meds?” _On your own volition?_

“Damn right.” The grin is audible in his voice. “And I called Rufus.”

That’s what Sam has been afraid of, why he tried to stay on his feet as long as he could. When his fatigue kept getting worse and he ended up hugging the toilet last night, he knew then and there that Dean was going to do something he wasn’t supposed to. Seems like that something was arranging work for himself. Moreover, looking at the items he has been bringing over since Sam woke up from his fitful nap, making calls wasn’t the only thing he did. He must have sneaked out to the storage unit for some of their stuff. Sam bets he didn’t ask for a friend to drive him either. “You aren’t allowed to work yet.”

“Wrong.” Dean kisses his forehead. “I’m not allowed to work _full-time_ yet.”

“No, Dean -” Oh shit. The nausea is building up again. Sam shivers and leans away from Dean, scrabbling for the container that has been appointed as his companion for today. Dean pets his back and says he’ll be right back with a wet cloth, conversation promptly forgotten. He reverts to calling Sam kiddo. It feels a lot like nostalgia. Sam wants to die.

 

It takes another day for him to resemble a functioning human again. By then, all of their stuff has migrated up into their new apartment from the unit they stored them in, even the couch, which Sam has no idea how Dean managed to pull off. He should be angry, he gathers, but since they arrived back here Dean has begun to take care of himself again and he doesn’t have the heart to reprimand him. Not driving his Baby for a month must have been like missing a limb. Dean’s much calmer now. In fact, he looks…

“Did you shave?” Sam asks from the kitchen’s doorway as the realisation hits him.

Dean startles and slaps his laptop shut, sitting at their tiny table like a deer caught in the headlights. Interesting. “Yep.”

“Where did you get the -”

“Razor? I bought it.” He shrugs, stands up and busies himself with a pot of soup on the stove that smells delicious to Sam’s poor empty stomach. “You’re one lousy guard dog, Sammy.”

Sam scowls and plops down in the chair opposite Dean’s, grumbling. He’s not sure what to attribute Dean’s sudden good mood to. Is it the medication, the increase in activity or just Palo Alto in general? “I was sick.”

“Always with the excuses.” Dean tuts and licks the spoon in his hand, king of hygiene he is.

Sam figures if they are going to pass a virus between each other, it’s not him who’s going to be the recipient, so he watches Dean’s idea of cleaning a utensil with the amused detachment one usually spares for a rowdy pet playing in the mud. There’s a mug of ginger tea and a bowl in front of him, evidence that Dean has been waiting for him to come out of the bedroom for a long time now. It makes him warm inside, knowing Dean was thoughtful enough to prepare these for him. And another morsel of an idea sparks to life in his mind - was it his sickness that prompted Dean to stop self-destructing on purpose?

“Hey, is that my robe?” Dean pipes up, crossing his arms. “Give it back.”

Sam tightens the soft flaps around himself. “No. You steal my hoodies all the time.”

“They are warmer than mine.”

“They are too big for you.” He pauses for effect. “By the way, this robe is my size too.”

“You told me it looked like I had found it in a flea market.”

“So? It’s still comfy.” Sam makes his best entitled expression. Jesus, he loves bickering with Dean. “I deserve comfy things, you know.”

“That so?” Dean growls. “I’ll show you what you deserve, big guy…” He advances, eyes narrowed and muscles flexing.

For a split second Sam thinks Dean will pounce and try wrestling with him, which would be a disaster considering how weak he is right now, but what happens instead is something completely different. Dean throws himself into his lap, straddling Sam’s legs, and hugs him so hard Sam feels their cheeks squishing together. There’s a fifty-fifty chance that the chair will break under their combined weight.

“I made you a broth.” Dean says in lieu of explaining his abrupt need for affection.

Fortunately, Sam is proficient in Dean-talk and rarely ever has trouble seeing the hidden meaning in his gestures. “Chicken or vegetable?”

Dean runs his hands over the lapels of the robe, leaning back, face aflame. “Vegetable.”

Sam grins. He must have been missed something fierce if Dean willingly touched a bunch of veggies, spent money on them and made a pot of food that doesn’t contain any fat, sugar or meat. It’s impressive. “Sounds great.”

Dean bites his lip. “I took the car to buy you carrots.”

That sounds so ridiculous coming out of Dean’s mouth that Sam has to hold back a laugh. “I know.” He also knows that their shit from the storage unit didn’t come over on foot either.

“Aren't you going to flip out?”

He should. God knows he should. Those antidepressants may have side effects that could impair reaction time, just to mention one dangerous possibility out of many. They don’t yet know if Dean is affected by any of them - though Sam is already suspecting an obvious one. But nothing bad happened, no one got hurt, and Dean had his precious me-time with his car. Sam is going to let it go, just this once.

He plants a kiss on Dean’s clean-shaven cheek. “I’m just glad you are feeling better.”

“Me too.” Dean confesses with palpable relief and moves to grab Sam’s bowl, standing up. “Alright. One portion of bland broth is coming right up, princess.”

Out of all the ridiculous nicknames Dean has been entertaining himself with, this one is definitely the worst. Sam is tempted to retaliate with something similar when he sees the smile in the corner of Dean’s mouth as he turns back to the stove, and decides to let him win this round. Plenty of time to outplay him when he is healthy again.

 

That night, when Dean is out like a light and snoring in his duvet-bundle despite the stifling heat, Sam switches off the movie he was pretending to watch in the living room and pulls Dean’s laptop out of its bag. It’s kind of cute that he thought Sam wouldn’t be able to break into it and check his browser history - it takes him less than ten minutes and he is pulling up the pages that seem relevant among the wide plethora of meaningless junk Dean appears to like. He feels somewhat guilty about snooping, but he’s crazy curious about what Dean was so flustered about at lunch. He justifies it with his responsibility to keep Dean safe while he’s on the mend. Hurtful online interaction could hinder his progress after all.

The first sites are all about various illnesses that could cause vomiting, including a detailed description of stomach cancer that Dean bookmarked with a set of exclamation marks. Sam refuses to spend more than the necessary time with these - otherwise he would end up abandoning his quest in favour of kissing Dean back out of sleep. Next, he finds a jewelry’s page - for Jody’s birthday gift, perhaps? - that he dismisses without a second thought. And then he hits jackpot.

It’s the homepage of San Francisco State University’s Engineering Department.

“Woah.” Sam mumbles. Now _that_ is something else. Does Dean want to be an engineer? Never said a word about it before.

It’s not an absurd plan at all. Sam knows Dean has a brilliant mind that he wastes away on self-deprecation and oiling cars. It’s the high school grades that could prove to be a problem, they aren’t exactly stellar. He might have to go to community college first, make it through those two years and apply to the uni after. Would he have the persistence to fight his way to a degree? He doesn’t have it yet, but maybe in a year? He seems to be getting better already, now that he realised his pills aren’t toxic sedatives. It took him a whole month, but he got here. It must mean that he realised some things are worth getting better for, right? This can’t be just a fluke before he gives up, Sam senses a real shift here.

A muffled shout from the bedroom interrupts his musing.

“Shit!” He hisses and shoves the laptop back into its holder.

By the time he gets there, Dean is sitting up on his side of the bed, hyperventilating and groping around himself, patting the empty space where Sam would usually be. Alarmed, Sam glances at the night light on the bedside table - damnit, he forgot to plug it in.

“I’m here, shh, I’m here.” He climbs on the mattress and tucks Dean into an embrace.

“Nightmare.” Dean wheezes. He’s all skin and bones compared to his normal weight, his frame doesn’t fit right into the cradle of Sam’s arms. He is trembling, pale as a sheet. “I woke up, didn’t know where you were, didn’t know where I was, how old I was, I thought I forgot, I thought you died -”

“Shh.” Sam feels the queasy tilt in his reality again - this isn’t how things are supposed to be. He is not accustomed to being Dean’s pillar, and as much as he used to wish for true equality in their relationship, the real thing is overwhelming to handle.

“Sorry.” Dean sniffs and lies back down. Lit by nothing but the dim light coming in from the hallway, his expression stays hidden in the shadows. “I’m okay, you can go back to your movie now.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Just let me…” Sam grunts, leaning over Dean’s head to switch on the small yellow light they have been using since last Christmas. As its soft glow paints soothing colours over the walls, Dean’s breathing evens out. “There. Much better now.”

He smiles down at Dean, gets a grateful blink of acknowledgement in return. A hand cups the back of his neck, strokes up and down in contemplation.

“You know that I still think about it, right?” Dean murmurs with a small, sad smile.

Sam lowers himself to his elbows on either side of Dean’s head, as if draping himself over his body could protect him from the hurt that’s coming from inside. “Kansas?”

“Dying.” Dean corrects calmly.

This time, it’s not panic that strikes Sam the hardest, but a strange sense of hope. They didn’t talk about it since that episode on the bridge. In Sioux Falls, everyone preferred to skirt around the elephant in the room, pretended the issue didn’t exist. But talking, real, serious talking could soothe some of Dean’s most distressing thoughts and could swing them in the right direction, Sam knows.

“You can always tell me about it.”

Dean licks his lips, uncertain. “Do you really want to hear it?”

“Of course.” However difficult it’s going to be.

“I like to think about the funeral. How peaceful it would be for me. No more pain, no more memories. I’d just float in nothing.” Dean says, his green eyes filling with wistful sadness as they flicker away from Sam’s face. “I want to be cremated. There’s… they have this fountain that they put the urn in. A bunch of water jets form a canopy around it, then when it’s time, the mechanism blows the ashes into the air. The water spray catches the cloud and carries it to the drain that’s under the fountain.”

Dean’s expression crumples. “It’d be so good, don’t you think? So light and easy. The water would wash it all away, back to the ground where it belongs, no grave to take care of, nothing, no more burden for you -”

Sam presses down with his entire body, sliding his arms under Dean’s neck and hugging him close before he could finish that horrible sentence and spiral further down into the clutches of darkness.

 _“Dean.”_ Sam says like someone just gave him a fatal knife wound.

“You are not a burden, you’ve never been, not to me.” He tells Dean gently. “Two days ago, when I was puking my guts out and you took such good care of me, did you think I was a burden?”

Dean presses his nose against Sam’s temple. “No. I just wanted you to get better.” He hiccups. “I was afraid you wouldn’t.”

“I feel the same way.” Sam draws back just enough to look him in the eye. “I care about you and I want to help you. You are not a burden.”

Dean blinks away his tears. “I feel like I am. And that makes me feel so guilty.”

“There’s nothing you should feel guilty for.” Sam kisses away the saltwater from the corner of Dean’s left eye. No words could express how much he wants Dean to believe him now.  “I’m so glad you are still here with me. I’m thankful for every day you choose to stay.”

Dean lets out a wet laugh, then rubs at his eyes and nose with an embarrassed little huff, holding onto Sam’s waist with his free hand. “Ah, I’m so sorry. That nightmare screwed with my emotions, man.”

So he wants to take the easy way out. Alright. This was already more than they have ever talked about the subject, no need to push it anymore.

Sam rolls over to lie on his side and curls his palm around Dean’s hip, arm resting across his torso. “Don’t worry about it. I’m always here if you want to vent about this stuff.”

“Thanks.” Dean replies and pulls the blanket over them both. “I swear that even with the pills, sometimes my moods are all over the place.”

“It’s okay. They need a few weeks to take full effect.”

Dean cranes his neck to the side to press their foreheads together. He sighs.

“This is why I wanted to come back here. To be alone with you.” He admits, probably still too wound up to filter how much of his deepest thoughts he gives away. Sam wishes he could be this open every day.

“Jody and Bobby blow things out of proportion. They look at me like I’m glass.” Dean mutters. “They didn’t give me space. I know I’m not supposed to work, or drive, or do anything that’s not some sort of zen meditation bullshit. But I want to, and I also know that you’ll let me.”

It’s such an endearingly Dean way to express frustration that Sam’s fear and sorrow retreat to the back of his mind. “You have me all figured out, huh?”

“You bet.” Dean weaves their fingers together, slowly drifting off again. “I love you.”

Hearing it is the best damn thing in the world.

 

* * *

 

 

The start of Sam’s second year at Stanford comes and goes without fanfare. He and Dean have more important things to worry about than school gossip and whatnot, and as a result, Sam feels more out of place than ever. Even with his friends, conversations grow stilted and awkward - they talk about vacations and summer flings, Sam stays quiet and thinks about holding his world in a grip of iron, hoping it won’t slip away. The guys boast about banging half a sorority, the girls bashfully admit they had a good time at a festival or two, Sam keeps his mouth shut and tries not to think of Dean’s tearful admission about the sexual side effects of his pills. Some of his buddies make an effort to ask - _“What about you, Sam?”_ \- but he’s too afraid and too jaded to begin explaining. _“My boyfriend, who is sort of my brother…”_ He can’t imagine that would go over well.

But Dean’s making tremendous progress. They made up with Jody, he is back to work full-time now, sleeps through the night, has started to gain back the weight he lost in Sioux Falls, goes to therapy without complaint. He’s getting out of the magnetic pull of darkness step by step, feeling lighter every passing week, and to Sam, that’s all that really matters. They are making a good team again. And maybe, if they carry on in the same track, they can become even better than they used to be.

One night in early October he is contemplating just that, the future, over an assignment he has little enthusiasm to finish, when Dean comes out of his own room and throws himself down next to him on the couch. They look at each other. Sam raises an eyebrow. Dean grins.

“I feel good tonight.” He announces and presses a dangerously wet kiss to Sam’s lips.

His dosage has been lowered this week - and seeing his dilated pupils and red ears tonight, Sam is pretty sure the side effects that hit him in the last months aren’t affecting him now. His sex drive and the equipment seem to be working just fine again, and Dean seems ridiculously happy about it.

The heat of anticipation spreads through Sam’s chest, up to his face. “Yeah?”

“Hm.” Dean breathes warmth into the shell of his ear, his deft fingers worming under Sam’s shirt, feeling him up with a confidence he has been lacking since June. His blunt nails scrape down the ridges of Sam’s abs.

“How good?” Sam whimpers. He is going to turn into goo any second now.

Dean’s hand stills, then slides further down Sam’s front to cup the tent in his pants in one slow, deliberate motion. He nips at Sam’s cheek. “Very.”

It’s a mad dash from then on, into the bedroom and onto each other until they are stark naked and Dean is poised astride Sam’s hips, rocking with a look of fulfillment on his face.  Sam’s entire body tingles from the surge of excitement that doubles his heart rate. This is the first time in four months that they are even attempting to go all the way. _Four months._

“I’m not gonna last.” Sam warns when Dean picks up his pace, but he’s instantly silenced by an insistent mouth and the sharp tug of fingers in his hair.

“I missed you so much.” Dean chants between kisses, then leans back and braces himself on Sam’s knee, giving up on his semblance of composure and just chasing his pleasure any way he can get it.

Sam soaks in the sight of him, mouth agape around a moan of appreciation. Dean has no idea of his own sensuality. He’s using his looks as a weapon, a shiny Colt to protect himself with; he flirts and parades around but never once believes it’s true awe he induces. Sometimes, Sam just wants to smooth his hands up his body from his ankles over the lush curve of his butt to his neck and watch how those ivory slopes flush pink under a touch that adores their very existence. He draws Dean back down for a kiss and holds onto his thighs, so close, never close enough.

“You aren’t my brother.” Dean gasps into his mouth, stating it like he needs to hear it over and over again.

“No.” Sam replies and catches the ripples of a shudder on Dean’s waist. The room is too dark for colours, but he imagines he sees the blush spilling down Dean’s chest when the sound of their movements turns restless and erratic.

Dean swallows, muscles tightening. “We aren’t related.”

Sam smiles. “We aren’t.”

“There’s nothing - nothing wrong with -”

“Nothing.” He nods and honest-to-God laughs. This is the first time the relief of it hits him in the chest, that they aren’t related by blood, that this isn’t a biological crime, that this would have always been fine if only they knew it all along, and thinking about that makes him come so fast and hard it seems to last forever. He is gasping and giggling at the same time and Dean is right there with him, hand mindlessly rubbing whatever he reaches even after Sam turns into a boneless heap of satisfaction under his touch. The ever-present guilt dribbles away from Sam’s mind like rainwater.

 

Afterwards, he indulges in his hobby cartography and maps out the lines on Dean’s back with his lips and hands, much to the dismay of their grumpy owner who’d rather escape to dreamland if only Sam let him. After he finally gets his fill, he rests his head on Dean’s shoulder blade and drifts in lazy contentment until an idea occurs to him and gets stuck in his mind. He hums. “What do you think about tattoos?”

Dean shrugs, dislodging his head. “Why? Want your name inked on my ass?”

Sam walks his fingers up the jagged knife-mark Dean hates the most. “I was thinking about these.”

The following grunt of irritation doesn’t come as a surprise. There aren’t many topics Dean hates more than discussing his scars. “When did you get so obsessed with my back?”

“Not your back.” Sam pouts, then bites into the round apple-knob of Dean’s shoulder, mouths at it gently. He thought Dean would know it after almost two years of unwavering worship.

Dean makes annoyed little sounds in the back of his throat and pushes Sam’s jaw away. “What is it then?”

Unperturbed, Sam nuzzles his way up to the crook of Dean’s neck, breathes in the fragrance of that soft place. It’s exquisite. It could only get better if he could taste it, sink his teeth into it and leave rings of possession in its supple flesh. He is a biter, and he would probably leave marks all over that milky canvas if they didn’t have such tragic significance in their lives. “Your skin.”

“My skin.” Dean deadpans, incredulous. “You’re going crazy about… my skin.”

“Well, yeah.” It’s so smooth and beautiful, scatterings of freckles everywhere, some for only Sam to see and dote on.

Dean turns around and fakes a pitying look. “You are such a dork.”

“Look who’s talking.”

They fall silent for a second, then open their mouths at the same time, blurting out the same thing. “I need to tell you something.”

Another moment of silence. “You first.” Dean says, eyes alight with a strange gleam. Is he nervous?

Sam bites his lip. “Don’t be mad, but… I have seen some of the websites you have been looking up on your laptop.”

“Yeah?” To Sam’s surprise, Dean completely overlooks that part of his admission that should have clued him in about Sam’s nosiness. He just freezes, eyes wide. “So?”

Confused, Sam goes on. “Do you want to be an engineer?”

Dean lets out a relieved chuckle that makes Sam frown. “Maybe.”

Alright then. “Because if you really want to do this, then I can help. You don’t have to shoulder this alone, okay? We can look up schools and programmes, see how we can manage things financially, I could get a job - not like last time, but -”

“Sam.” Dean cuts him off, then smiles and flips them around, pinning Sam’s wrists to the mattress. “Shut up.”

And with that command, whatever else they were about to confess that night stays forgotten in the dance of bodies twining around each other, sharing comfort and desire. Sam doesn't mind it one bit. A bossy Dean is a good start.

Things, of course, aren’t going to be magically perfect from here on, he knows. Even with the violent mood swings and the despair gone, Dean has a long way to go. But it’s okay. For the first time ever, he has a chance to let the past go, to win the battle he has been fighting all his life - and he is taking that goddamn chance. His wings may have been broken, but he is going to fly again. Damn right, he is.

 


	17. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two and a half years later, Dean takes Sam to a special place and gives him a gift that has been a long time coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, the last chapter! It is pure fluff. :)

 

 

 

 

 _“With our fingers,_  
_we caress_  
_the present;_  
_we cut it_  
_according to our magnitude;_  
_we guide_  
_the unfolding of its blossoms._  
_It is living,_  
_alive--_  
_it contains_  
_nothing_  
_from the unrepairable past,_  
_from the lost past,_  
_it is our_  
_infant,_  
_growing at_  
_this very moment, adorned with_  
_sand, eating from_  
_our hands._  
_Grab it._  
_Don't let it slip away._  
_Don't lose it in dreams_ _  
or words.”_

\- Pablo Neruda, Ode to the present

 

 

* * *

 

The next mile marker sign passes them in a green burst of colour, the railing and the trees whooshing past in its wake. The world rolls away under Baby’s wheels, the road a giant conveyor belt on its rough surface. Inside the car, everything is still and calm. No radio for now. Dean has been humming to himself for the last thirty minutes, but he has run out of catchy tunes and listening to the silence seems to lull his frantically racing heart. He is in a weird mood today. Big plans ahead - they kinda mess with his thought process. Another milestone dashes closer, then away, a creek on its trail. Dean feels stationary, sharing a tiny immobile space with Sam and this tranquil quiet. Which inertia system is the one that’s moving, them or the universe? Which one is static? It all depends on the reference point.

He sighs and reaches into his pocket to rub his thumb over the band of titanium he’s hiding in there. The metal is smooth under the pad of his finger, cold and grounding. The ring’s arc is familiar, an old comfort after two years' worth of trips in and out of Dean’s underwear drawer. Yeah, this isn’t going to be his first try, so what? He has a dignity to uphold, damnit, he can’t just do it when Sam might take it as a joke. It has to be… well, not movie perfect, but good enough for them, which may not be that high a standard but it’s a standard nonetheless. He can do this only once, so he’s gotta make it count. It’s not an engagement ring. _Hell no._ He’s not going to get on one knee like some sap, drowning in rose petals and fake sentiments. But it’s a gift that means a lot. A tangible promise.

The first time the idea occurred to him, he had just realised Sam didn’t feel like he had a family anymore. He lay there in that stuffy motel bed, weaving a thread around Sam’s finger and let his mind spin circles over the issue. Sam always wanted to hold onto this connection between them, something no one else shares and no one can take away. His immediate answers about the possibility of a name change reminded Dean of that one fight they had during their first real vacation, how devastated Sam was when he questioned their relationship, how much blood meant to him ever since they were little. He thought about Sam’s jealous streak and his only serious insecurity - that he’s not good enough, that Dean is going to leave him. Lost in thought, Dean toyed with that string of fabric around Sam’s knuckle and then _bam,_ he just knew. Sam needed something to make their connection special in a seemingly unbreakable way, to make up for the loss of not being brothers. It sounded only fair - Dean had his amulet, Sam should have had something of his own.

That was two and a half years ago and the ring is still taking its monthly commute into Dean’s pocket and then back to its inconspicuous black box. The closest Dean ever got to coming clean about it was the day he bought it, four months after Kansas, when things were starting to get a little less painful and hard. But he wimped out at the last moment and that’s kinda the story of his life since. Sam is none the wiser - he has been writing all instances of odd behavior off as effects related to Dean’s pills. Dean’s not taking them anymore, though, got the all-clear in January, so it’s going to be inevitable to confess soon enough.

It might be the shape that makes this difficult, he reckons. He should have gotten something else - a ring holds too much significance, too many chances for Sam to take it the wrong way. Like, he might think Dean is popping the question. Nope. No question here, it’s just a gift. They couldn’t get married anyway, so what would be the point? Their relationship is just as illegitimate as it was before. The law applies to adopted siblings too.

This is why it’s so puzzling that Dean’s stomach is in knots about today. He is reasonably sure that Sam is going to appreciate it, even this long after Kansas. And it’s a practical idea too, it will be easy to sell the lie that they have the same surnames because they are married. Still, Dean is all jittery in his seat, speeding down the highway through the beautiful wilderness of Wyoming.

“The things I do for you.” He shakes his head and sends a fond smile Sam’s way. It goes unseen, of course - Sam nodded off while they were driving through Idaho Falls and he hasn’t yet rejoined the living.

It’s freaking awesome that Dean can drive freely again. For a while, it was all “only for short distances, okay?” and “I’ll come with”, then the lower his doses got, the calmer Sam became, and now he’s relaxed enough to doze off and drool over the upholstery, contorted into a ball of cat-like flexibility. He has his mouth open and breathes soft little puffs through the gap between his teeth. Dean can just see the pink inside of his lower lip - it’s such an enticing distraction that he is tempted to pull over and taste it. He’s restraining himself, though, because it’s only five miles to the viewpoint he wants Sam to see and he _really_ needs to get there soon or he’s going to combust.

“You’re sleeping through all the fun, buddy.” He massages Sam’s knee, then whistles the intro of _Smoke on the water_ while the Impala is taking a turn. “Wakey-wakey.”

Sam doesn’t stir. His lips fall agape even wider, head lolling with the car’s motion. Dean has the childish urge to stick something inside that mouth and see the spluttering reaction it would get. Grinning, he stretches out his right hand.

The tip of his index finger is just barely touching Sam’s skin when Sam’s head snaps forward and his teeth nip Dean’s knuckle, leaving faint indents as they scrape over his flesh.

“Ouch!” Dean exclaims, curling his poor hand into his side.

Sam’s bubbling laughter sounds way too alert for someone who was supposed to be sleeping just a few seconds ago. “I knew you’d fall for it.” He giggles, straightening up, and opens his sunflower eyes to shoot waves of mischief in Dean’s direction.

Dean scowls. “Is that the treatment I get for planning this amazing road trip?”

Sam performs an intricate stretching routine, yawning. “You mean, for asking me to spend my spring break in your car? Yeah, that’s what you get.”

“You wound me.” Dean eases his foot up from the accelerator and smirks. “But you can always -”

“-kiss it better?” Sam finishes for him. “Only if you’re good.”

Chuckling, Dean pulls over and parks in the dirt parking lot a bunch of the nearby hiking trails lead to.

It’s incredible how little the place changed since the last time Dean came here. He was twenty-one back then, heartbroken and on the cusp of a decision he was too afraid to make, at the time when he attempted to destroy his attraction for his little brother by keeping his distance. Fact is, he wanted to go home. It was the summer after Sam’s seventeenth birthday, the end of an entire year spent apart. Dean’s love was still a burning, uncontrollable thing that consumed him inside, but he was too tired and parched by its heat to keep going any longer. He kept thinking, _one more day and you’ll stop wanting, one more week and the desire will leave._ He was dragging himself through the motions, but the homesickness didn’t seem to get better.

It was one of the local chicks he flirted with who waxed poetic about the sight and tried to convince him to stop by on his way out of town. Those days, Sam had a habit of leaving idle little voicemails, never outright asking, but always hoping Dean would come home. Dean was listening to one of those when he reached this parking lot and the pressure in his chest grew so dreadful that he did stop after all. He has never regretted it since.

“Dean, where are we going?” Sam asks as he follows Dean through a narrow path in the shrubbery, eyeing the thick forest around them with a dubious tilt of his head. The view isn’t visible yet - it takes a short walk uphill to reach the clearing where you can get a good look at the whole valley and the snow-capped cliffs ahead. “We’re not packed for hiking. If you get us lost -”

Dean laughs and turns around, walking backwards with his arms spread. The chilly spring air fills him with unexpected vitality, turns his jitters into excitement. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Sasquatch?”

Sam grumbles something, but the corners of his mouth twitch into a tentative smile. As he ambles after Dean, every now and then his head is lit up by a ray of golden light that has broken through the overhanging branches. The sunshine bounces off his too-long hair, the curling, messy tips of it, makes those brown locks look glossy and soft. Dean absolutely does not want to twist them between his fingers. Not at all.

Okay, maybe a little bit.

The top of the hill is close now with its dark wooden picnic tables and drooping, lonely pines. Exhilaration pumps like wildfire through Dean’s veins. He puts a hand on Sam’s elbow and raises his eyebrows, hears the answering groan even before he exclaims and takes off. “Race ya!”

He runs as though his life depended on it, because Sam is fast and can be one dirty player if he wants to, using those strong arms and long legs to gain unfair advantage. The chase makes Dean breathless and flushed, he can feel the burn on his cheeks. He crows in triumph as he crosses the imaginary finish line and grins when Sam finally catches up and shoves at him. They tumble to the first table together and Sam hops up on it, his legs dangling.

The view is breathtaking. Dense forest as far as one can see, spruces and firs, a clear lake down in the valley, not a man in sight. There's a snowy mountaintop in the distance, its whiteness eye-watering as the midday sunshine reflects off the frozen surface. The eerie quiet is broken only by the faint sounds of birdsong drifting over from the trees. The smell of pine needles and resin is thick in the air, carried by the breeze that sifts through Sam’s hair and sends a shudder down Dean’s spine. Tipping his face up to soak in some warmth, Dean lets his eyes slip close for a second.

“God, this is the place, Sammy. Can you believe it? I thought I’d never come back.” He says, because he is an idiot and his mouth just can’t stop running when he’s nervous. Sometimes, he thinks he was born with a dysfunctional filter that makes it pretty darn obvious to anyone who’s close to him what kind of mood he’s in.

Predictably, Sam perks up like a hound on the scent. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Dean cringes, rubbing his nape. “Remember that road trip I went on seven years ago?”

“As if I could forget.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t call it a road trip, though. You ran away.”

Dean casts his eyes down, ignoring the little jab Sam never fails to make whenever this topic comes up. “This is where I decided I’d go back home.” _Where I gave in._

“Huh.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s hand migrates into his pocket, tracing metal and a promise engraved in titanium. He saunters closer to stand between Sam’s legs and runs his free hand over the outside of his denim-clad thigh, feels the muscles flex as Sam scoots closer. “Time flies, huh?”

Braving a flickering glance at Sam’s face, he clears his throat. “So… what do you think? Do you like the view?”

Sam’s feet bump into Dean’s calves, an idle tap as Sam swings them back and forth. “It’s beautiful.”

“You see those trees over there?” Dean inclines his head at a pair of young oaks, their trunks wound so tight around each other they are completely intertwined. They are standing on their own at the edge of an endless evergreen forest, out of place but thriving against all odds. The first time he saw their unique shape, Dean wondered about them for a long time. How did they get there, how did they even survive? If they ever cut one off the other, would those strong, tenacious trees live through the separation? “They remind me of -”

“- us.” Sam finishes with him, understanding.

Dean won’t have to spell it out for him that this place means something significant because this is where he made the decision to let it happen if it was still meant to be. He won’t have to explain it further. Having someone who gets him without the need for words is something Dean never wants to lose. He won’t run away again, not ever. And Sam deserves to have a testament of that, deserves to know how deep Dean’s feelings run. That’s exactly why Dean has to go through with it right here, right now.

He clenches his fist around the ring and opens his mouth, but Sam chooses that moment to grab his wrist and rub a bare strip of it, asking cautiously. “What are you up to, hm?”

And just like that, Dean’s courage jumps ship and leaves him with only one deflecting technique at hand. Its success rate isn’t too good, but what else is there to try? He waggles his eyebrows and hooks a finger into one of Sam’s belt loops, tugs playfully, message clear.

Sam looks unimpressed. “Let’s not.”

“C’mon. Outdoor sex, Sammy.”

Sam flicks an ant off the wood beside his hip. “I don’t see the appeal.”

“I can show you.” Dean leers and presses a lecherous kiss to Sam’s lips. They part indulgently under his attack, but don’t let him make it fiery, they pull away too soon.

“Alright.” Sam crosses his arms. “Fess up.”

There’s no way out of this now, is there? “I have a gift for you.”

“Is it something I have to wear?” Sam makes a face, referring to Dean’s earlier suggestions of roleplaying, but it melts off quickly when all Dean does is fidgeting in place. “That wasn’t a tricky question.”

Dean pulls his phone out of his other pocket, gearing up. “You don’t have to accept it.”

“You’re freaking me out here. Why wouldn’t I?”

Dean’s skin heats up. “Read this.” He says and thrusts the device into Sam’s grip.

It’s an email from SFSU's Engineering Department. They accepted his transfer from the community college Dean is going to finish in a few months. Unbelievable - how did he even get here? Where did he get the idea? He wouldn't have made it this far without Sam's support, that's for sure, but will that be enough for two more years? He’ll be the oldest fucking BSc student, he has no doubt about that. Maybe he shouldn’t do it after all, it'll be too weird. 

Sam skims the message, brows furrowed, then he gasps. “You got in.” He states as though he doesn’t believe his eyes, lips quirking up. “Dean, you did it!”

“Yeah.” Dean licks his lips. It’s embarrassing how relieved he is that Sam is so overjoyed about it. It’s not going to be easy to stick it out until he gets that degree, after all. “Your gift is sort of related to this.”

“Okay.”

“With you starting your masters and this… we are going to meet so many new people that we should think of a cover story.” Better go with the easier explanation first. Everything else - it’s engraved right into the silvery metal he’s holding in a death grip. If he reads those words, Sam will know. “So I thought we could pretend we eloped and you took my name.”

“Fake marriage?” Sam asks, tone teasing. “Does that mean you are fake proposing right now?”

Dean grins so wide it hurts and watches its reflection in Sam’s bright smile, throat closed and heart wide open. His fingers, trembling but sure, place the ring in Sam’s hand. “Yes.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. I hope you guys liked the journey! 
> 
> I've never posted anything before I came into this fandom, but I'm so glad I decided to start. A big thank you to everyone who left kudos, comments or any kind of feedback, especially to those who left me messages more than once, and Hobbitual_Psychick in particular. Without this support and encouragement I'm sure I wouldn't have written 100k words! When I began this story, I didn't imagine I would delve this deep into the PTSD-self-harm-abuse triangle, but spurred on by the reception and my own feelings about it, I let the original idea develop into this massive thing that explores issues I'm closely acquainted with. I guess I can say it was a therapeutic experience. :)
> 
> I have a bunch of drafts for new stories that I can start now, which I'm very excited about. It is a distinct possibility that I'll write a sequel for Paper birds too, I have a few things in mind I could unravel, but that's not my main focus at the moment.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all! I'm looking forward to hearing your thoughts and suggestions about this story. Did you have a favourite part? Mine was the reveal in Chapter 14. :)


	18. ART

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four pivotal moments in the boys' lives captured as art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I commissioned some artwork for this story and I decided to post it because it's really lovely. [Kamidiox](https://www.deviantart.com/kamidiox/gallery/) did an amazing job, make sure to check out her other works.
> 
> Merry Christmas, guys! :)

 


End file.
